TRIMMED 
WITH    RED 


TDWT1M 
IxvW  1I\ 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


TBIMMED   WITH  RED 

WALLACE  IBWIN 


TRIMMED 
WITH    RED 

BY 

WALLACE   IRWIN 

AUTHOR  OP  "THE  BLOOMING  ANGEL,"  "VENUS 
IN  THE  EAST,"  "LETTERS  OF  A  JAP- 
ANESE SCHOOLBOY,"  ETC. 


NEW  XBr  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


GRORGK  HOKACK 


INftMRKO  IH>V«  MY    AlVMtKAYUXN 
ANU   MY    HOOK 


TRIMMED  WITH   RED 


ONE  of  those  sweetish  winters  which  the  press 
refers  to  as  open  had  smiled  and  smiled  into  a  lat- 
terly month,  and  now  the  human  animal  was  be- 
ginning to  nib  its  eyes  and  complain  in  the  voice 
of  one  who  has  been  cheated  of  his  discomforts. 
More  specifically  it  was  mid-morning  in  mid- 
March  at  a  favored  corner  of  Long  Island  where 
a  well-bred  road  passes  by  a  haughty  quarter  mile 
of  stuccoed  wall  and  seems  to  apologize  at  any- 
thing so  nearly  approaching  intimacy.  Possibly 
you  have  motored  over  that  road  or  walked  it  be- 
hind a  wheelbarrow;  if  so  you  have  murmured 
"Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope"  softly,  lest  you  disturb 
the  great,  and  wondered  how  much  it  cost  to  build 
that  wall  between  Mrs.  Shallope  and  humanity. 
But  on  the  mid-March  morning  when,  in  so  far  as 
we  are  here  concerned,  history  was  born,  the  well- 
bred  road  must  needs  grovel  upon  its  sandy  bed 
in  apology  for  an  unheard-of  breach  of  etiquette. 

Mules! 

Should  not  the  soul  faint,  the  spirit  hold  its 
breath,  at  the  association  of  unassociable  ideas? 

7 


8  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

^*^M*™^^^""*"™*'''^^"^^^****M™''"****"**MM*M"**M***"^'™***M^*''^^"^^"'**'*""""*'''^'*'^ 

Mules  and  Mrs.  Bodf  rey  Shallope !  Yet  mules  they 
were;  no  science,  Christian  or  heathen,  could  deny 
that  horried  fact.  Clatter!  clatter!  clatter!  long- 
eared,  slim-legged,  sharp-hoofed,  a  hundred  and 
twenty  of  them,  two  abreast,  came  swinging  round 
the  curve  with  all  the  exuberance  of  so  many  buck 
privates  just  out  of  uniform;  wholesomely  gaunt 
and  stoically  carefree  they  jogged  along  while  nu- 
merous mounted  attendants  spoke  to  them  fre- 
quently in  the  language  of  mules,  thus  shocking 
high  heaven  and  all  but  stunning  Mrs.  Shallope' s 
head  gardener,  who  peered  through  the  iron  grill 
of  the  gate  and  prayed  that  Mrs.  Shallope  wasn't 
up  yet,  or,  if  she  was,  wasn't  looking  out  of  the 
window. 

Emily  Ray,  who  had  thrown  on  a  cloak  but  was 
bare-headed  against  the  soft  winds,  came  laughing 
down  the  drive,  a  little  strand  of  hair  blowing 
across  her  nose.  She  was  laughing  at  the  outraged 
expression  of  the  head  gardener's  broad  back,  and 
at  the  forest  of  ears  filing  by  beyond  the  gate,  and 
at  certain  dramatic  possibilities  offered  by  the  im- 
pious situation. 

"Mules !"  groaned  the  gardener,  touching  his  hat 
as  she  came  near. 

"Aren't  they,  though !"  she  smiled,  as  if  to  flat- 
ter him  on  his  keen  knowledge  of  natural  history. 
Then  more  seriously:  "Did  you  count  them?" 

"No,  miss;  but  they're  cutting  the  road  up  some- 
thing dreadful!" 

As  the  last  clattering  pair,  duly  sworn  at,  went 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  9 

jogging  by  Emily  Ray  put  her  small  strength 
against  the  heavy  gate,  which  being  unlocked 
deigned  to  swing  sufficiently  to  be  squeeze^ 
through.  Once  out  in  the  open  she  looked  first  to 
the  right,  where  the  comic  cavalcade  was  already 
being  swallowed  by  distance,  then  to  the  left,  where 
the  well-bred  road  lay  again  flat  and  civil.  The 
glance  of  her  pleasant  blue  eyes  was  at  once  guilty 
and  expectant,  but  her  generous  mouth  still  held 
its  fun-loving  smile. 

An  electric  horn  uttered,  somewhere  round  the 
bend,  three  terrific  shrieks.  She  peeked  swiftly 
through  the  gate  to  see  that  the  gardener  wasn't 
looking,  then  tiptoeing  into  a  stiff-legged  dance  she 
brought  her  hands  together. 

"Gosh!"  she  said  aloud.    "Then  it  is  Oliver!" 

The  most  loathsome  of  all  road  monsters 
whirtled  into  sight,  something  of  shining  scarlet 
with  a  turtle-back  body  and  spider-web  wheels.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  such  a  projectile  could  stop 
without  a  terrific  explosion  and  havoc  for  miles 
round.  But  Emily  waited  with  the  faith  of  little 
children.  She  had  seen  Oliver  do  it  before.  Faith 
was  justified,  for  the  roguish  brute  skidded  on  its 
front  tires,  uttered  a  great  sigh  and  stood,  purring 
softly,  less  than  two  yards  from  the  maiden  by  the 
wayside. 

"Why  don't  you  get  a  red  car?"  asked  this  same 
maiden,  experiencing  the  sunshine  which  Oliver 
Browning's  chubby  features  always  brought  to  her. 

"I  thought  of  that,"  he  told  her  with  his  best 


10  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

look  of  schoolboy  innocence.  "You  don't  get  any- 
thing really  red  any  more.  It  must  be  those  Ger- 
man dyes." 

He  got  himself  out  of  the  tomato-colored  racer, 
stepping  rather  gingerly  on  a  left  leg  which,  accord- 
ing to  a  consensus  of  medical  opinion,  would  al- 
ways be  a  trifle  stiff.  Of  about  medium  height, 
pink-cheeked  and  amiable,  Oliver  Browning  offered 
a  poor  figure,  you  would  have  said,  for  a  glowing 
romance.  There  was  no  earthly  doubt  that  Oliver 
was  a  fat  boy;  comfortably  plump,  even  in  Emily 
Ray's  partial  eyes.  She  could  have  hugged  him  at 
that  moment,  but  the  beetle-browed  gardener  was 
again  passing. 

"I  see  you  got  them !"  she  jubilated,  but  was  not 
too  jubilant  to  note  how  smart  he  looked  in  his 
new  homespun  suit  with  the  sporting  plaid. 

"Did  you  notice  it?"  he  grinned. 

"I  thought  I  saw  a  mule  or  something/'  she  con- 
ceded. "Oliver,  did  you  get  them  all?" 

"A  hundred  and  twenty,  and  ninety-two  of  'em 
A  I.  Bought  the  whole  batch  in  New  York,  sight 
unseen — a  canceled  government  contract.  Found 
'em  braying  round  a  remount  station  far  away 
from  Missouri.  Here  they  are ;  there  they  go !" 

Oliver,  who  made  this  speech  with  a  trace  of  a 
Virginia  accent,  delivered  his  lines  with  a  great 
show  of  calm  and  business  acumen.  Plainly  he 
was  thrilled. 

"You  really  did  it!"  She  adored  him  with  her 
shining  eyes. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  11 

"Well,  didn't  you  get  my  note?" 

"Yes,  Oliver." 

"Well,  didn't  I  say  I  would?" 

"You  certainly  did.  It's  like  being  a  general  in 
a  great  army.  You  said  thirty  thousand  of  them!" 

"Forty,"  he  corrected. 

"And  you'll  keep  'em  all  in  a  great  concentration 
camp  until  cold  weather,  then  ship  'em  to  France." 

"You've  got  it  pretty  straight,"  he  conceded,  leav- 
ing the  impression  that  she  was  only  a  girl  after 
all. 

"Oliver,"  she  almost  whispered,  yet  eying  him 
with  that  practical  look  of  which  she  was  capable, 
"you'll  be  rich." 

"I  will  not." 

"Oliver,  you're  one  of  those  mules." 

"Am  I?" 

"You  never  see  anything  you  don't  want  to  see. 
How  on  earth  can  you  sell  forty  thousand  mules 
at  ever  so  much  profit  per  head  without  getting 
rich?" 

"Green  and  Plevort,  Mules,"  he  explained 
cryptically. 

"Are  they?" 

"I'm  only  a  buyer  for  'em."  Then  turning  upon 
her  with  a  hurt  expression:  "I've  been  out  of  uni- 
form four  months.  Don't  you  think  that's  doing 
pretty  well?" 

"Oliver,  dear!  You'll  always  do  pretty  well. 
You're " 

"Emily,  how  rich  have  I  got  to  be?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  in  the  voice  of 
a  girl  who  knows  perfectly  well. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  worried  about  servants 
or  bills  or  clothes.  I  want  you  just  to  concentrate 
on  me.  A  girl  like  you  doesn't  go  with  two  rooms 
and  a  kitchenette." 

"What  are  you  doing,  Oliver?"  she  asked  him 
with  a  quizzical  smile.  "Announcing  our  engage- 
ment?" 

"Why  not?  It's  got  to  be  announced  some 
time." 

"Do  you  think  I'd  spoil  my  romance  with  a  lot  of 
money  matters?" 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't.  And  that's  why  I've 
got  to  feel  flush  before  we're  married." 

"Mule!" 

She  said  it  scoldingly,  but  her  head  was  going 
round  with  the  consciousness  that  Oliver  had  pro- 
posed to  her  and,  as  far  as  she  could  find  out,  she 
had  accepted  him. 

"I  don't  mean  this  palace  effect  here,"  he  said 
rapidly,  gesturing  toward  the  Shallope  version  of 
marbled  grandeur.  "But  to  marry  you  out  of  this, 
on  my  salary,  would  be  like  taking  a  baby  out  of 
a  warm  crib  and  dumping  it  into  a  snow  bank.  It 
may  be  a  hard  life  here,  but  you've  got  the  sur- 
roundings that  —  that  go  with  you,  Emily." 

"I  don't  have  the  least  say  in  the  matter,  do  I  ?" 
asked  Emily  Ray,  pouting  but  proud  as  Punch  at 
this  manly  domination. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED IS 

"I'll  be  buying  mules  for  myself  the  first  you 
know " 

It  was  quite  in  harmony  with  the  mule  motif  that 
Oliver  should  have  brought  a  crumpled  envelope  out 
of  an  inside  pocket  and  from  this  produced  a  small 
brittle  square  of  photography. 

"I  thought  maybe  you'd  keep  it,"  said  he,  blush- 
ing. It  was  a  crude,  unmounted  snapshot,  but  the 
girl  laughed  appreciatively.  Undoubtedly  the  like- 
ness was  good.  A  plump  and  merry  soldier  boy 
stood  laughing  in  the  foreground,  while  over  his 
shoulder  stared  the  long  solemn  face  of  an  army 
mule. 

"That  was  Pandora,"  he  explained,  "just  before 
she  crippled  me  for  life." 

Emily  had  never  before  realized  that  happiness 
could  depend  on  mules;  but  suddenly  truth  flooded 
her  like  a  great  light.  She  continued  to  study  the 
photograph,  but  her  mind  was  not  with  the  Ex- 
peditionary Force.  Standing  as  they  were  close 
together  in  an  angle  behind  the  gate-post  it  was 
only  natural  that  he  should  have  kissed  her;  and 
being  only  natural,  he  did.  So  again  the  well-bred 
road  received  its  shock. 

"How  am  I  going  to  see  you?"  he  was  asking 
with  furious  earnestness. 

"Aunt  Carmen's  getting  very  difficult,"  she  in- 
formed him  seriously. 

"I  don't  mind  her.    I'll  come  anyhow.     I'll " 

"No  you  won't,  Oliver.     Not  unless  you  want 


14  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

me  to  pack  up  and  come  to  New  York  and  go  back 
to  work  in  the  department  store." 

"No,"  he  decided  for  her,  "you've  got  to  stay 
with  Aunt  Carmen,  and  I've  moved  to  New  York. 
What  does  she  say  about  me?" 

"She  doesn't  know  who  you  are  or  where  you 
come  from." 

"Is  it  possible?"  he  asked,  looking  almost  stately 
in  his  access  of  pride.  "Is  it  possible  that  she  has 
never  heard  of  the  Brownings  of  Charlottesville  ?" 

"She  hasn't  heard  of  anybody,"  explained  Emily 
soothingly.  "She  was  born  in  New  York.  Please 
don't  be  a  mule,  dear.  And  now  I've  got  to  run." 

"But  if  I  can't  come  here  and  you  can't  come 
to  New  York " 

"There's  my  cousin,  Rosamonde." 

"Mrs.  Valiant?" 

"Yes.  She's  a  nut,  but  she's  a  dear.  Next  time 
I'm  in  town  I'll  have  her  ask  us  to  lunch  or  dinner 
or  something.  And  you  can't  tell  how  Aunt  Car- 
men's going  to  jump.  Oh,  Lord!"  A  glance  at 
her  wrist-watch  caused  this  prayer.  "It's  half-past 
eleven,  and  if  I'm  not  on  deck " 

"You  can  always  get  me  through  Green  and 
Plevort,"  sang  out  her  chubby  lover. 

She  paused  a  moment  on  the  drive  to  watch  him 
scuttle  away  with  the  air  of  an  automobile  bandit 
who,  having  executed  a  bold  daylight  robbery,  is 
merrily  off  with  the  spoils. 


II 


SERVANTS,  tradespeople  and  week-end  guests — • 
those,  in  brief,  who  are  privileged  to  penetrate  that 
quarter  mile  of  stuccoed  wall  which  divides  the 
Shallope  from  the  un-Shallope — have  been  aware 
of  one  peculiarity  in  the  widow's  marbled  edifice. 
The  front,  a  blazing  pile  of  spotless  stone,  which 
combines  the  glories  of  Italy,  France  and  Spain 
with  all  the  suavity  of  a  Mexican  table-d'hote,  is 
not  on  architectural  speaking  terms  with  the  back, 
which  was  originally,  and  still  is,  a  frame  building 
of  American  farmhouse  design.  People  sufficiently 
familiar  with  Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope  to  call  her 
Aunt  Carmen — either  to  her  face  or  to  the  back  of 
her  worldly  old  head — are  not  surprised  to  see  that 
the  old  frame  house  is  getting  the  worst  of  it. 
Away  back  in  the  antediluvian  it  was  inherited  by 
Bodfrey  Shallope  together  with  several  flourishing 
farms  in  the  region  of  Maiden  Lane.  And  Car- 
men Ray  married  Bodfrey  after  his  divorce  from 
Andalusia  Clark,  who  afterward  married  Emmett 
Ballymoore,  the  rubber  man,  commercially  speak- 
ing. 

To  follow  the  Biblical  sequence  necessary  in  de- 
scribing Long  Island  relationship,  it  was  written 
that  Bodfrey  should  rule  over  Carmen  but  four 
and  twenty  months.  As  a  violent  end  of  the  chap- 

15 


16  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

ter  Carmen  slew  Bodfrey,  alcoholic  poisoning  and 
late  hours  being  the  means  chosen.  So  she  lived 
unhappy  ever  afterward  and  from  time  to  time 
built  Parthenons,  Trianons  and  Marathons,  all  in 
frosty  marble,  across  the  front  of  the  ancestral 
Shallope  home,  now  being  elbowed  down  the  slope 
and  having  but  one  claim  to  distinction — a  well- 
established  belief  that  its  garret  was  of  solid  oak, 
built  to  repel  the  short-range  bullets  of  Hessian  in- 
vaders during  the  Revolutionary  War. 

When  Emily  Ray  got  back  from  her  stolen  kiss 
by  the  gate  she  took  a  side  path  and  entered  the 
old  Shallope  frame  building.  Here  was  a  little  sun 
room  where  she  could  have  her  own  desk  with  her 
own  stationery  and  a  chance  to  think  her  own 
thoughts.  She  should  have  been  answering  letters 
for  Aunt  Carmen  this  morning,  but  the  pen  never 
got  so  far  as  the  inkwell  for  the  very  good  reason 
that  it  was  being  used  as  something  pleasant  to 
chew  on.  The  chewing  brought  many  thoughts, 
rapid,  distracting.  Why  was  it  that  her  appear- 
ance offered  an  invitation  to  a  second  look  as  she 
sat  there  wasting  Aunt  Carmen's  time?  Without 
being  obviously  pretty  she  managed  to  be  lovely. 
Complexion  fair,  eyes  blue,  nose  slightly  snubbed, 
no  visible  birthmarks,  height  five  feet  eight  inches 
— possibly  Bertillon  is  a  greater  descriptive  artist 
than  Shakespeare.  Oh,  yes!  There  was  her  hair, 
too.  It  was  brown  and  heavy;  rather  too  heavy  to 
conform  with  the  prevailing  mode.  Aunt  Carmen 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  17 

was  always  hinting  that  Emily  would  look  better 
if  she  would  cut  her  hair  off  halfway  down  the 
braid  and  wear  the  rest  close  to  her  head  as  peo- 
ple do  nowadays.  Aunt  Carmen  was  never  satis- 
fied unless  something  beautiful  was  being  cut  off. 
For  instance,  there  was  Oliver  Browning. 

It  had  been  a  little  less  than  a  year  since  Aunt 
Carmen  acknowledged  Emily's  existence,  and,  ac- 
knowledging, had  offered  the  selfish  shelter  of  her 
wing.  It  had  never  mattered  two  straws  how,  what 
or  where  Emily  was  so  long  as  she  had  kept  her 
poverty  out  of  New  York.  But  Rosamonde  Val- 
iant had  discovered  and  identified  a  pretty  girl  be- 
hind a  glove  counter  at  Beltman's  Fifth  Avenue 
shop  as  none  other  than  Findley  Ray's  cheerful 
orphan,  and  it  was  then  that  Aunt  Carmen  had 
swooped  to  the  rescue  in  time  to  save  embarrassing 
questions.  Her  own  niece,  a  Ray,  selling  gloves! 
Upon  the  supposition  that  ladies  don't  sell  gloves 
Emily  had  been  spirited  away  to  the  Long  Island 
estate,  where  she  was  to  learn,  after  a  few  weeks, 
that  ladies  may  do  other  and  equally  humble  things 
under  the  auspices  of  the  rich.  For  it  became  ob- 
vious, after  a  term  of  it,  that  Aunt  Carmen  had 
discovered  in  Emily  a  Little  Miss  Fixit,  a  combina- 
tion social  secretary,  adviser,  keeper  and  buffer  for 
the  world.  For  the  wine  of  early  years  had  bred 
gout  in  Aunt  Carmen's  jeweled  fingers,  and  a  life- 
time of  arrogance,  self-indulgence  and  flattery  had 
turned  Carmen  in  her  old  age  into  a  monstrous  ec- 
centric, beset  by  the  enemies  she  had  been  indus- 


18  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

triously  making  these  forty  years,  and  almost  pa- 
thetically clinging  to  a  nimble  mind  able  to  take 
some  of  her  well-deserved  troubles  off  her  shoul- 
ders. 

It  was  in  keeping  with  Emily  Ray's  normal  com- 
mon sense  that  she  should  prefer  the  sumptuous 
tyrannies  of  her  aunt  to  the  genteel  drudgery  of 
Fifth-Avenue  salesmanship.  She  was  luxurious  at 
heart — all  the  Ray  women,  so  far  as  she  knew,  were 
as  luxurious  as  they  found  it  respectably  possible 
to  be.  This  morning,  chewing  the  nub  of  her  pen 
as  she  gazed  beyond  heavy  chintz  draperies  across 
a  rolling  sward  which  Italian  gardeners  were  rak- 
ing and  making  ready  for  spring,  she  was  valiantly 
defending  herself  and  her  weakness.  Of  course 
Aunt  Carmen  was  correct  in  her  constantly  ding- 
donged  assertion  that  the  Ray  women  always  mar- 
ried well.  She  was  something  of  an  old  fool,  as 
her  intimates  were  aware,  but  she  would  have  been 
no  less  a  fool  in  a  less  luxurious  environment. 
During  this  year  of  splendid  hardships  Emily  had 
not  been  unaware  of  its  advantages.  Not  to  have 
to  travel  twice  a  day  in  a  brain-splitting  subway, 
standing  while  Germanic  gentlemen  reading  Bol- 
shevik literature  occupied  the  seats;  not  to  be  fined 
every  time  you  were  late  to  anything;  not  to  be 
obliged  to  lie  in  quaint  attitudes  during  sleeping 
hours  in  order  to  avoid  loose  springs  in  a  board- 
ing-house bed — these  conditions  were  worth  sacri- 
fices. It  was  satisfying,  too,  thought  Emily,  to  be 
able  to  wear  the  sort  of  gowns  she  had  once  ad- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  19 

mired  on  other  people,  and  to  flirt  and  talk  and 
dance  in  magnificent  surroundings  where  the  young 
men,  if  not  sized  to  Ouida's  standard  of  aris- 
tocracy, were  at  least  well  behaved. 

Aunt  Carmen  was  right.  And  Emily  owed  her 
everything  in  the  world.  Then  she  thought  again 
of  Oliver  Browning. 

An  animate  shadow  somewhere  near  her  elbow 
reminded  her  of  a  human  presence,  and  she  turned 
to  find  that  Mrs.  Shallope's  butler  was  standing 
in  the  telepathic  attitude  which  perfect  butlers  have 
when  commanding  attention.  He  was  a  bald,  eld- 
erly man  with  cock  eyes  and  a  nose  that  jutted  so 
abruptly  from  his  face  as  to  suggest  some  canti- 
lever plan  of  construction.  He  had  the  square, 
neat  side  chops  of  his  profession;  in  fact,  he  was 
a  man  so  well  butlered  as  to  leave  nothing  to  the 
imagination.  Being  one  of  those  who  must  human- 
ize all  things  Emily  had  refused  to  take  Mr.  Owley 
as  anything  either  subnormal  or  supernatural. 
Merely  another  item  in  this  social  masquerade. 

"Good  morning,  Owley." 

"Good  morning,  miss." 

"What  have  you  on  your  conscience  now?" 
Emily  dropped  her  pen  and  turned  to  face  the 
automaton  with  whom  she  had  formed  her  peculiar 
friendship.  At  her  question  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
rippled  the  discipline-seared  countenance. 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,  miss,  you  will  remem- 
ber 'ow  'Amlet  mentions  that  conscience  doth 
make  cowards  of  us  all." 


20  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"My  word,  Owley !  How  you  talk !  What  have 
you  been  doing?  Murdering  people  in  the  pantry 
and  hiding  the  bodies  in  the  wine  cellar?" 

"You  will  find  the  'ouse,  miss,  in  perfect  order," 
he  replied  with  just  a  touch  of  a  rebuke  in  his 
voice. 

"Then  I  shouldn't  worry  if  I  were  you,"  she 
assured  him  in  her  kindly,  amused  tone.  "What 
happens  outside  your  profession  is  nobody's  busi- 
ness but  your  own." 

"You  think  so,  miss?"  His  colorless  cock  eyes 
opened  to  an  expression  approximating  hope. 

"I'm  convinced  of  it.  Won't  you  sit  down, 
Owley?" 

"Thank  you,  miss."  Owley  had  taken  gingerly 
hold  on  the  back  of  a  chair  and  had  half  eased 
himself  into  it,  when  evidently  he  caught  sight  of 
a  passing  parlor  maid,  for  he  straightened  himself 
to  the  correct  ramrod  pose  and  apologized:  "If 
you  don't  mind,  miss,  I'll  stand.  But  I  do  wish 
I  could  agree  with  you,  miss,  on  what  you  say 
about  responsibilities." 

Emily  had  gathered,  from  previous  talks,  that 
Mrs.  Shallope's  butler  had  opinions  of  his  own. 
But  never  before  had  he  opened  up  like  this. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  your  ideas  on  the  subject," 
she  invited,  settling  herself  back  for  an  interview. 

"A  butler's  office,  looking  at  it  one  way,  is  a 
moral  and  a  public  trust  like  that  of  a  minister  of 
the  gospel.  Is  it  not  Martin  Luther  who  says: 
'To  go  against  one's  conscience  is  neither  just  nor 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


right'?  But  what  troubles  me,  miss,  is  this:  'Ow 
many  consciences  'ave  I  got?  If  I  carry  my  con- 
science round  with  me,  as  I  should,  shall  I  carry 
it  as  a  butler  or  as  a  man  of  the  world?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  offhand  that  your  con- 
science as  a  butler  ought  to  be  pretty  good,  since 
you  are  the  champion  butler  of  Long  Island." 

"Ah,  but  miss,  that  is  the  trouble.  I  am  not  a 
butler  essentially." 

"No?" 

"Absolutely  not.  In  private  life  I  am  at  times  a 
real-estate  operator;  at  others  I  am  a  motorist  and 
country  gentleman  ;  at  still  others  I  affect  the  opera 
and  take  Mrs.  Owley  to  dance  at  fashionable  'otels. 
Mrs.  Shallope,  you  see,  pays  me  a  very  liberal 
wage,  and  from  my  savings,  several  years  ago,  I 
was  able  to  acquire  some  property  which  was  con- 
demned by  her  estate  at  Esterberry  where  the  sub- 
way is  coming  in  later,  and  I  was  able  to  turn  a 
pretty  penny  in  small  lots.  At  Esterberry  I  am 
known  as  Mr.  Plunkett,  president  of  the  Plunkett 
Villa  Sites.  Then  I  have  acquired  through  Mc- 
Cosh,  Mrs.  Shallope's  chauffeur,  a  second-'and 
racing  runabout  which  I  have  'ad  nicely  painted 
and  which  I  often  take  out  for  tours  or  runs  along 
the  Speedway.  On  such  occasions  I  register  as 
'Arold  'Athaway,  the  name  being  romantic,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking.  Then  in  New  York,  at  danc- 
ing and  dinner  parties,  I  am  Mr.  Jackson,  of  Long 
Island,  the  name  being  substantial  and  suggestive 
of  a  solid  gentleman  taking  his  ease  -  " 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"Owley,  you  old  fraud!"  cried  Emily,  more 
amused  than  shocked.  "How  can  you  bear  to  lead 
such  a  quadruple  life?  Suppose  I  should  tell  Mrs. 
Shallope." 

"You  wouldn't,  miss."  Owley  said  this  with 
perfect  confidence. 

"Why  wouldn't  I?" 

"You're  a  young  lady  of  experience  in  the  world, 
miss." 

"Thank  you,  Owley.  And  wouldn't  you  call 
Mrs.  Shallope  and  her  friends  ladies  of  experience 
in  the  world?" 

"Oh,  miss!"  Old  Owley  covered  his  sly  mouth 
with  a  knotty  hand  as  though  to  smother  an  un- 
seemly smile.  "  'Ow  could  they  know  anything 
of  the  world?  It  requires  imagination,  miss,  and 
philosophy  —  knocking  about  a  bit.  And  what 
'arm  am  I  doing  playing  a  part,  as  they  say?  I 
pay  my  way,  shilling  for  shilling,  and  what  I  learn 
as  Mr.  Plunkett  of  the  Villa  Sites  or  JArold  'Ath- 
away  of  the  Speedway  all  goes  down  to  experience, 
making  me  a  better  butler,  as  it  were." 

"But  there's  your  conscience,  Owley." 

"To  be  sure,  there  it  is.  But  'ere's  the  question 
with  me:  Is  that  conscience  pagan  or  Christian? 
According  to  the  philosophy  of  Nietzsche,  you 
might  say,  I  am  an*  Immoralist.  And  Marcus 
Aurelius  says  quite  frankly:  'Fashion  thyself  to 
the  circumstances  of  thy  lot.'  ' 

"And  Emily  Ray  says"  —  here  Miss  Ray  pursed 
her  lips,  which  were  a  shade  puritanical  —  "that  it 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


isn't  just  right  to  go  round  giving  false  names. 
Why  can't  you  do  everything  you  do  under  the 
name  of  Owley?" 

"Well,  miss,  if  you'll  pardon  the  remark,  I 
wouldn't  take  the  same  zest  in  my  adventures.  Be- 
sides, Owley  isn't  my  name." 

"For  heaven's  sake!     And  what  is  your  name?" 

"Bird,  miss  —  Samuel  Bird.  I  use  Owley  for  the 
hours  when  I  am  in  service." 

"Well,  you  are  a  complex  !" 

"Yes,  miss." 

Doubtless  the  Complex  would  have  gone  into 
further  explanations  had  not  a  bell  rung,  signaling 
him  to  bow  himself  out  of  the  room.  Emily  re- 
sumed her  writing.  A  moment  later  the  bearer  of 
many  cognomens  reappeared. 

"Mrs.  Shallope  asks,  miss,  if  it  is  convenient  for 
you  to  come  to  her  room." 

Emily  found  her  aunt  sitting  at  an  oval  mirror 
in  an  oval  dressing  room,  the  walls  of  which  were 
paneled  in  delicate  greenish  brocade  between  slen- 
der ivory  pilasters.  The  oval  carpet  that  covered 
the  floor  was  of  an  old  French  design  and  the  win- 
dows were  hung  with  mulberry.  Aunt  Carmen 
was  engaged  in  her  favorite  indoor  pastime,  which 
consisted  simply  of  being  waited  on.  A  personal 
maid  was  anxiously  arranging  the  great  lady's 
coiffure,  and  a  brow-beaten  seamstress,  who  had 
come  out  for  orders  from  a  New  York  modiste, 
was  gathering  together  garments  contemptuously 
rejected,  and  preparing  to  depart.  When  Aunt 


24  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Carmen  was  in  one  of  her  moods  departing  was 
always  a  pleasurable  occupation. 

She  was  a  flabby,  haggard  woman,  whose  stringy 
biceps  showed  unlovely  below  the  sleeve  fringe  of 
her  dressing  sacque.  On  her  neck,  slightly  below 
and  behind  her  ears,  two  small  scars  glowed  angry 
red.  These  were  from  wounds  inflicted  two  years 
ago  by  a  beauty  surgeon  who  guaranteed  to  redeem 
sagging  chins;  the  chins  sagged  again  after  a  time 
but  the  scars  remained.  Emily  caught  a  flash  of 
her  eyes  in  the  mirror.  They  were  still  beautiful, 
tempestuous  and  gipsy  black,  very  like  those  of 
Emily's  cousin,  the  frivolous  Rosamonde  Valiant. 
Aunt  Carmen  was  scolding  vigorously;  obviously 
the  closing  paragraph  of  a  long  tirade. 

"Thompson,  you  can  do  my  hair  without  pulling 
it,  I  know  you  can.  You've  snatched  half  of  it  out 
already  with  your  clumsy  fingers.  I  haven't  any 
hair  to  lose.  If  I  want  to  tear  my  hair  I'll  do  it 
myself.  Heaven  knows  I  have  worries  enough 
sometimes  to  want  to  snatch  it  out  by  handfuls. 
Where  in  the  world  are  you  putting  that  comb? 
Horrors!  Take  it  out!  I  look  like  the  Queen  of 
Sheba!" 

Her  quick  black  glance  caught  the  reflection  of 
Emily  in  the  mirror,  whereupon  she  jerked  round 
so  rapidly  as  to  pull  the  comb  from  Thompson's 
patient  fingers. 

"Emily  darling,"  she  said  in  the  sweetest  possible 
tone,  "come  here  and  kiss  me.  Where  have  you 
been?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  25 

"I  was  answering  some  letters,  and  Owley 
said " 

"To  be  sure.  I've  missed  you  dreadfully.  If  it 
wasn't  for  you,  dear,  I  sometimes  think  I  should 
be  murdered  in  my  bed." 

"There,  aunty!"  consoled  her  ambassadress, 
laughing  and  embracing  the  lean  shoulders.  "If 
there's  an  uprising,  you  know,  we  can  all  lock  our- 
selves into  the  fort." 

Aunt  Carmen,  it  might  be  explained,  had  explicit 
faith  in  that  oak-ribbed  garret  in  the  old  Shallope 
wing,  a  grimy  dungeon  with  a  triple  door  where 
she  insisted  revolutionary  Shallopes  had  barricaded 
themselves. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  my  dear,"  complained 
Aunt  Carmen.  Then  turning  with  sudden  ferocity 
upon  the  browbeaten  seamstress:  "You  still 
here?" 

"This  peignoir,  madame " 

"Take  it  away !  This  is  no  packing  room.  Take 
it  back  to  New  York  and  tell  Madame  Bleriot  never 
to  send  me  such  trash  again." 

The  miserable  woman  slunk  out  of  the  presence, 
whereat  Aunt  Carmen  turned  her  machine  gun 
upon  the  unprotected  Thompson. 

"YouVe  done  sufficient  damage  for  the  day, 
Thompson.  You  may  go." 

"Thank  you,  madam."  Thompson  said  it  as  if 
she  meant  it. 

"You    know,    Emily,"    said    old    Carmen    in    a 


26  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

hushed  voice,  as  soon  as  her  maimed  victim  had 
fled,  "it's  wonderful  how  a  spiritual  belief  sus- 
tains one.  It  if  weren't  for  my  Religion  of  Love 
I  should  go  raving  mad." 

The  room  was  now  cleared  for  dialogue,  and 
Emily,  sensing  trouble,  seated  herself  on  the  edge 
of  a  painted  chaise  longue.  Snatching  impetuously 
at  a  drawer  of  her  dressing  table  Mrs.  Shallope 
brought  forth  a  torn  shred  of  newspaper  and 
handed  it  over  to  her  niece. 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do  about  that?" 
she  wailed. 

Emily  read  the  article,  which  covered  a  long 
column  of  print,  and  she  was  at  first  puzzled  to 
guess  why  Aunt  Carmen  should  be  called  upon  to 
do  anything.  "Forum  of  Freedom  Advances 
Views"  was  the  top  headline,  with  subsidiary  an- 
nouncements that  "Mrs.  Andalusia  Ballymoore 
Speaks  for  More  Sympathy  Between  Classes,"  and 
"Walter  Scott  Syle  Defines  Bloodless  Revolution." 
Subsequent  paragraphs,  rapidly  slipped  over,  gave 
the  impression  that  a  great  many  illustrious  names 
in  New  York  society — mostly  feminine — had  come 
together  in  the  Fritz  Hebron  ballrooms  to  voice  a 
protest  against  Prussianism  in  American  affairs. 
The  blend  of  socialism  and  society  was  quite 
baffling  to  the  girl,  who  handed  the  paper  back 
with  the  comment: 

"The  Mad  Hatter  is  giving  another  party.  It 
must  have  been  wonderful!" 

"Don't  be  so  superficial!"   snapped  Aunt  Car- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  27 

men ;  then  added  plaintively :  "It's  that  Ballymoore 
woman  again."  In  conference  Aunt  Carmen  al- 
ways referred  to  the  first  wife  of  her  late  husband 
as  "That  Ballymoore  woman."  "They  wouldn't 
take  her  in  the  Red  Cross  because  she  was  pro- 
German.  Up  to  the  time  of  the  armistice  she  was 
socially  dead.  And  now  see  what  she's  doing! 
Chairman,  if  you  please,  of  the  Whangdoodle 
Forum!  And  everybody  listening  to  the  voice  of 
the  prophet.  Emily,  what  shall  we  do  about  it?" 

"If  I  were  you,  Aunt  Carmen,"  spoke  the  young 
oracle,  "I  shouldn't  do  anything." 

"Shouldn't  do  anything?"  The  old  voice  rose 
to  a  querulous  pitch.  "When  she's  done  every- 
thing within  her  power  to  scandalize  me  out  of  the 
country?  I  shall  write  a  letter  to  the  papers." 

"I  shouldn't  do  that,"  echoed  Emily. 

"Why  not?"     Aunt  Carmen's  eyes  blazed. 

"Well,  if  you  signed  it  people  might  think  that 
you  were " 

She  hesitated. 

"Jealous?"  cut  in  Aunt  Carmen.  "Why  don't 
you  say  it?" 

Emily  did  some  rapid  calculating  ere  she  said: 

"I  might  write  something  to  the  Times  and  sign 
it  Pro  Bono  Publico  or  Americanus.  It  would  do 
just  as  much  good,  and  there  wouldn't  be  any 
questions  as  to  the  motive." 

"Do  so,"  commanded  the  czarina;  "and  show  it 
to  me  before  you  send  it." 


28  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Emily  arose  to  go.  She  thought  that  was  all, 
and  the  instinct  of  escape  was  big  within  her. 

"Emily!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Carmen." 

The  old  lady  had  turned  again  with  character- 
istic suddenness. 

"What  were  those  mules  doing  at  my  gate  this 
morning  ?" 

It  was  said  in  exactly  the  voice  Aunt  Carmen 
used  when  inquiring  about  people  she  did  not  recog- 
nize socially. 

"They  just  came  that  way.  You  see  they  were 
going  to  New  York  and " 

"They  just  stopped  in,  I  suppose?  Since  when 
has  the  Plainview  Road  become  a  runway  for  live- 
stock?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Oliver 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  saw  this  Browning  boy's  circus 
chariot  by  my  gate." 

This  Browning  Boy  had  been  pigeon-holed,  ap- 
parently, in  the  same  row  with  That  Ballymoore 
Woman. 

"He  bought  them  at  a  perfectly  wonderful  bar- 
gain"— Emily  decided  upon  a  candid  course — "and 
he  drove  them  by  just  to  show  me  what  he'd  done." 

"He's  simply  spoiled  my  winter,"  scolded  Aunt 
Carmen.  "And  why  in  the  world  did  he  have  to 
come  and  live  at  Esterberry?  I  know — you  needn't 
tell  me." 

Emily  could  not  restrain  a  smile,  for  being  a 
Ray  woman  she  was  not  without  her  vanity. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  29 

"Come  here,  darling."  Old  Carmen  took  the 
girl's  fingers  in  a  scrawny,  jewel-studded  hand  and 
her  black  eyes  softened.  "Let's  not  sentimentalize. 
You  haven't  come  to  any  sort  of  understanding, 
have  you?" 

"No." 

"Let's  look  at  him  for  what  he  is.  He  hasn't  a 
cent.  His  family  come  from  heaven  knows  where." 

"He's  a  Browning  of  Charlottesville,"  she  re- 
cited, with  a  pride  she  had  obviously  borrowed 
from  Oliver. 

"Where  in  the  world  is  Charlottesville?" 

"In— I  think  it's  Virginia." 

"East  or  West?" 

"I — I'm  not  sure.     But  it's  a  very  fine  family." 

"It  must  be,"  drawled  Aunt  Carmen.  "He  went 
to  war  as  a  common  soldier." 

"Oliver  would  never  be  common,  whatever  sort 
of  soldier  he  was,"  Emily  defended  with  heat. 
"He  enlisted  the  first  month  of  the  war,  and  they 
put  him  in  the  remount  division  because  he  knew 
so  much  about  horses.  He  would  have  been  at 
least  a  colonel  by  now  if  he  hadn't  been  wounded 
and  invalided  home  after  his  first  trip  on  the 
transport." 

"How  was  he  wounded?"  asked  Carmen  scorn- 
fully. 

Emily  paused  just  a  second. 

"He  was  kicked  by  a  mule,"  she  bravely  ex- 
plained. 

"Kicked  by  a  mule,"  repeated  Aunt  Carmen  re- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


flectively  as  she  gazed  in  the  mirror  studying  her 
uneradicable  wrinkles.  "The  Ray  women,  what- 
ever their  faults,  have  always  married  well.  My 
dear,  how  would  you  like  to  tell  your  children  that 
their  father  had  been  a  common  soldier  kicked  by 
a  mule?" 

"He  did  it  for  his  country/'  declared  Emily,  the 
Ray  temper  coming  to  the  fore,  "and  it  was  just  as 
glorious  as  being  shot  by  a  ninety-pound  bullet." 

"Undoubtedly."  Aunt  Carmen  again  turned 
from  her  complexion  to  her  family  troubles.  "Em- 
ily, if  you've  got  to  marry  a  soldier  why  not  pick 
out  a  rich  one?  There's  Sidney  van  Laerens;  he 
was  a  second  lieutenant  all  during  the  war." 

"Yes,  and  spent  his  time  with  his  spurs  hooked 
to  a  desk  in  Washington " 

"Don't  be  impertinent.  Try  to  get  it  out  of  your 
head  that  romance  and  poverty  have  got  to  go 
together.  I  don't  object  to  your  marrying  for  love. 
But  you  can  fall  in  love  with  a  rich  man  just  as 
easily  as  with  a  poor  man  if  you  put  your  mind 
to  it." 

Emily  said  nothing  in  rebuttal;  therefore,  Aunt 
Carmen  got  time  for  a  full  breath. 

"This  Browning  boy  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  an  impudent  little  fortune  hunter." 

"Aunt  Carmen!" 

"That  may  be  harsh,  but  you've  compelled  me  to 
speak  the  truth.  You  haven't  learned  the  ways  of 
our  world,  my  dear,  because  youVe  been  living 
from  pillar  to  post  in  shops  and  boarding  houses. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  31 

But  you're  in  a  position  now  where  every  adven- 
turer in  the  world  will  regard  you  as  fair  game." 

"But  Aunt  Carmen,  Oliver  was  nice  to  me  before 
I  ever  dreamed  of  coming  here.  I  met  him  first 
when  I  was  working  at  Beltman's." 

"Don't  mention  that  vulgar  place!"  cried  the 
outraged  dowager. 

"And  more  than  that,  Aunt  Carmen,"  declared 
Emily,  on  the  verge  of  rebellion,  "if  I  left  here 
to-day  and  went  back  to  work  at  Beltman's  I  know 
in  my  heart  that  Oliver  would  be  just  as  nice  to 
me " 

"Would  he  marry  you?" 

"Yes,  he'd  marry  me  in  a  minute  if  I'd  let  him." 

"No  doubt."  Aunt  Carmen  fell  into  a  sort  of 
dream,  her  eyes  becoming  focussed  apparently  on 
Emily's  mouth.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  in  the  tone 
of  a  parent  addressing  a  naughty  child,  "let  me  see 
your  teeth." 

Emily  bared  two  pearly  rows  while  Aunt  Car- 
men made  an  earnest  inspection. 

"You've  never  had  that  enamel  filling  put  back," 
she  said  at  last. 

"It  didn't  show  and  I've  been  so  busy " 

"Doesn't  it  hurt?" 

Emily  was  about  to  say,  "No,"  when  a  small 
thought  intervened  and  truth  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Sometimes,"  she  admitted  innocently. 

"You  must  go  right  in  to  the  dentist,"  com- 
manded Carmen.  "This  very  afternoon.  O'Brien 
will  take  you  in  the  car.  I'll  telephone  Rosamonde 


32  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

you're  coming — heaven  knows  she'll  be  glad  of 
your  company." 

"If  you  think  it's  necessary,  Aunt  Carmen," 
complied  her  dutiful  niece. 

"Quite  necessary.  And  now,  my  dear,  please  go 
and  write  that  letter  for  the  Times." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Carmen." 

In  the  sun  room  of  the  old  Shallope  frame  house 
Emily  sat  chewing  the  end  of  a  pen.  How  the 
fairies  of  good  fortune  were  conspiring  in  her  be- 
half! Quite  obviously  Aunt  Carmen  was  sending 
her  to  town  to  get  her  away  from  Oliver — and 
Oliver  had  been  transferred  to  New  York  this  very 
morning.  At  last  she  concentrated  her  thought 
and  attacked  the  letter  to>  the  Times. 

"Of  course,  when  the  very  rich  are  tired  of  all 
the  new  dances  and  the  opera  season  is  drawing  to 
a  close,"  she  began  her  inspired  diatribe  against 
parlor  Bolshevism,  "then  is  the  time  for  society  to 
turn  to  a  new,  expensive  and  picturesque  vice." 

Emily  paused  and  considered  her  literary  style. 
Aunt  Carmen  so  wanted  something  said  to  embar- 
rass Mrs.  Ballymoore;  and  Emily  so  wanted  to 
please  Aunt  Carmen  who  had  just — however  un- 
consciously— made  her  very  happy. 


Ill 


MRS.  MERLIN  VALLANT  lived  and  quarreled  with 
her  middle-aged,  devoted,  choleric  husband  in  a 
large  ornate  apartment  just  off  Fifth  Avenue.  The 
Valiants  were  not  occupying  an  apartment  for  pur- 
poses of  economy — old  Merlin,  had  his  wishes  been 
consulted,  would  have  voted  for  a  white  front  on 
the  Avenue;  but  poor  little  Rosamonde' s  inability 
to  keep  house  or  keep  a  secret  or  keep  anything  of 
value  had  caused  them  to  compromise  upon  what, 
in  the  argot  of  Manhattan  real  estate,  is  termed  a 
Modern  Fire-Proof. 

Rosamonde  Valiant  was  now  twenty-one — two 
years  younger  than  her  cousin  Emily — and  had 
been  married  to  the  nitrate  millionaire  for  nearly 
three  years.  One  could  hardly  have  called  it  a  love- 
less match,  because  Rosamonde,  although  never  a 
Juliet,  had  seen  the  love-stricken,  thick-bodied 
Romeo  in  a  glamour  of  gold.  That  faded,  fashion- 
able old  wretch,  Aunt  Carmen,  had  almost  literally 
stood  behind  the  altar,  inspiring  the  childish  bride 
with  thought  waves  to  the  effect  that  Rosamonde 
was  a  well  connected  Ray,  that  the  Rays  were  all 
poor,  that  the  Ray  women  were  all  beautiful  and 
had  never  failed  to  make  a  good  match. 

Into  one  of  the  small  crises  in  poor,  silly,  beau- 
tiful Rosamonde's  life  came  Emily  Ray  on  a 

33 


34  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Wednesday  afternoon;  and  far  too  cheerful  she 
was  for  a  young  lady  about  to  see  a  dentist. 

The  high  hall  into  which  Emily  stepped,  to  be 
told  that  Mrs.  Valiant  would  be  out  immediately, 
was  splendid  to  the  superficial  eye.  In  style  it  was 
Flemish,  rich  with  the  sort  of  carven  panels,  spires 
and  gargoyles  that  the  quaint  artisans  have  learned 
to  fashion  so  cunningly  by  machinery  and  by  the 
mile.  From  here  the  visitor  entered  into  a  thirty- 
foot  living  room,  a  kingly  space  whose  nationality, 
like  that  of  kings,  was  most  decidedly  mixed.  In- 
terior decorators  had  furnished  the  place  with 
articles  of  imitation  magnificence  at  a  price  which 
would  have  completed  state  capital  buildings  in 
Victorian  days. 

But  the  thing  that  startled  Emily  was  the  noise. 
Squeaks,  squawks,  jabberings,  whistlings  issued 
from  every  corner,  from  over  florid  balustrades, 
from  behind  an  Italian  priedieu,  through  the  woof 
of  Brussels  tapestries.  A  menagerie!  Centered 
tastefully  against  the  leaded  panes  of  the  long  bay 
window  hung  a  great  Chinese  bird  cage,  clamorous 
with  small  green  love-birds.  Somewhere  a  parrot 
squawked.  Then  came  an  unearthly  squeaking 
gibber  right  over  her  head. 

Horrors!  Something  impish,  human,  furry, 
hurtled  from  its  high  perch  and  landed  square  on 
Emily's  cringing  shoulder  where  it  crouched  bright- 
eyed  and,  raising  a  little  mummified  hand,  began 
affectionately  to  stroke  her  on  the  cheek.  Emily 
took  one  disgusted  look.  Ugh!  A  marmoset! 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  35 

With  a  gesture  of  instinctive  aversion  she  had 
brushed  the  pathetic  monster  to  the  floor  and 
watched  it  scamper  away  when  Rosamonde  Val- 
iant entered,  extending  her  white  helpless  hands  in 
welcome. 

"My  dear  Emmy!"  she  cried,  and  in  the  midst 
of  a  cousinly  kiss,  Emily  saw  how  Aunt  Car- 
men must  have  looked  at  the  age  of  twenty-one. 
Rosamonde' s  eyes  were  brilliant,  black  and  shal- 
low, her  mouth  self-indulgent,  her  forehead  low. 
She  was  graceful  with  the  slim,  flat-chested  grace 
of  the  mode. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  chatted  on,  yearn- 
ing apparently  for  a  confidante.  "Merlin  left  me 
this  morning  in  a  frightful  rage.  What  in  the 
world  possessed  Aunt  Carmen  to  send  you  into 
town — not  your  teeth,  of  course." 

"Oliver  Browning,"  confessed  Emily,  eager  to 
clarify  the  situation. 

"I  see !"  Rosamonde  rolled  her  black  eyes  wick- 
edly and  bit  her  self-indulgent  under  lip. 

"Aunt  Carmen  thinks  he's  staying  at  Esterberry, 
so  she's  sent  me  into  town  to  get  out  of  his 
clutches." 

"Isn't  that  romantic!" 

"But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  sent  back  to 
New  York  to-day.  Rosa,  dear,  you're  going  to  be 
a  good  fellow  and  let  me  see  him,  aren't  you?" 

"Rath-urr!"  agreed  Rosamonde;  and:  "Mustn't 
it  be  wonderful  to  be  in  love.  Oh,  Emmy,  I'm  so 
unhappy !" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Rosamonde's  chin  did  an  unexpected  thing.  It 
lost  its  contour  and  began  to  pucker  like  a  little 
withered  peach.  Apparently  she  was  struggling 
with  her  tears. 

"Rosa!     What  has  happened?" 

"I'm  so  unhappy!"  Rosamonde  threw  herself 
upon  several  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  upholstery 
and  gave  way  to  grief.  "It's  Merlin — Merlin's 
fault.  He  never  gives  me  anything." 

Emily  smiled  and  glanced  round  the  carven  vistas 
of  the  apartment. 

"Poor  starved  thing!"  cried  Emily,  her  voice 
rich  with  emotion. 

"I'm  not  starved — only  half  starved.  When  I 
married  him  I  thought  he  was  really  rich,  and  he's 
just  sort  of.  People  are  laughing  at  my  car  be- 
cause it's  nearly  a  year  out  of  date — have  you  seen 
Vera  Ballymoore's  with  the  Louis  XIV  finishings 
inside?  Merlin  says  it's  gaudy  and  keeps  complain- 
ing about  the  income  tax.  And  look  at  that  ring!" 

Emily  looked.  It  was  a  solitaire  of  perhaps  five 
carats,  cut  with  innumerable  facets  and  water-pure 
in  color.  Merlin  was  about  a  five-carat  millionaire, 
thought  Emily,  and  Rosamonde  had  expected  ten! 

"It's  your  engagement  ring,"  said  Emily,  telling 
something  which  Rosamonde  undoubtedly  knew. 

"Nobody's  wearing  those  old-fashioned  things 
any  more,"  mourned  the  half -starved  Rosamonde. 
"I  saw  an  emerald-cut  diamond  in  Twillaway's 
window  last  week.  It's  wonderful.  Everybody's 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  37 

wearing  them,  you  know.  And  Merlin's  acting 
like  a  pig  and — and " 

The  normally  handsome  chin  was  again  twisted 
to  the  aspect  of  a  withered  peach.  Emily  saw  at  a 
glance  the  condition  of  her  cousin;  a  child  with 
too  many  toys,  a  child  with  nothing  to  do  but  ask 
for  more. 

"Awk,  awk!"  exclaimed  a  parrot  above  Rosa- 
monde's  surge  of  grief. 

"He  certainly  doesn't  stint  you  on  animals,"  sug- 
gested Emily  by  way  of  consolation. 

"He's  even  complaining  about  them.  He  says 
the  place  is  getting  to  be  a  regular  animal  store. 
He's  so  materialistic  he  doesn't  want  me  to  have 
any  human  companionship." 

"Do  you  refer  to  these?"  asked  Emily,  casting 
her  eyes  around  the  menagerie. 

"Well,  aren't  they?  Don't  you  realize  that  they 
all  contain  the  souls  of  dead  people  and  great 
geniuses?" 

"Whew !"  Emily  whistled.  "Who's  been  getting 
at  you,  Rosa?" 

"Mrs.  Finnessey,"  said  the  foolish  cousin. 

"Mrs.  Finnessey!" 

Emily  uttered  the  name  of  an  industrious  lady 
whom  the  papers  once  satirized  under  the  soubri- 
quet of  Fad  Finder  for  the  Rich.  Upon  such  idle 
minds  as  Rosamonde's  this  professional  enter- 
tainer and  interior  decorator  of  the  soul  had  prac- 
ticed for  several  seasons,  supplying  one  fad  as  soon 
as  another  showed  signs  of  wear,  substituting 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Aztec  Dancing  for  Chinese  Palmistry,  never  lack- 
ing some  new  form  of  spiritual  vaudeville  with 
which  to  dazzle  her  prey. 

"She  calls  it  Neotheology,"  Rosamonde  went  on 
mournfully.  "It's  really  a  wonderful  religion. 
You  buy  a  great  number  of  birds,  fishes,  reptiles 
and  things,  and  every  morning  you  say  a  prayer 
that  puts  you  en  rapport  with  their  souls." 

"It  sounds  inspiring.  Of  course  you  believe 
every  word  of  it." 

"I  did  until  this  morning,"  lamented  the  child 
wife.  "But  the  way  Merlin  acted  seemed  to  shatter 
all  my  faith.  I'm  getting  tired  of  this  darned 
menagerie.  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  me. 
They're  more  trouble  than  an  insane  asylum.  The 
goldfish  cost  twelve  dollars  apiece  and  they're  al- 
ways dying.  And  Eustace  is  getting  so  fussy  about 
his  food " 

"Who's  Eustace?" 

"He's  an  alligator — at  least  he  looks  like  one  in 
this  earth  plane.  Really  he's  the  soul  of  a  priest 
of  Egypt.  I  only  got  him  last  week,  and  he's  so 
big  that  I  had  to  put  him  in  a  bathtub  in  the  spare- 


room." 


At  this  point  Agnes,  the  parlor  maid,  entered 
and  stood  as  one  who  would  be  heard. 

"Mrs.  Finnessey  is  callin',  madam,"  she  ex- 
plained upon  inquiry. 

"Have  her  sent  up,"  commanded  Rosamonde, 
then  turned  to  Emily  with  brightened  eyes. 
"Really,  she's  very  charming." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  39 

"Don't  you  think  she  owns  an  interest  in  a  bird 
and  animal  store?"  asked  Emily,  being  ever  prac- 
tical-minded. 

"What  an  idea!  Emmy,  Mrs.  Finnessey  never 
even  thinks  of  anything  that  isn't  spiritual." 

Mrs.  Finnessey  came  in  with  the  dimples  of  her 
forty  years  showing  becomingly  as  they  always  did 
in  the  presence  of  the  rich.  She  was  a  small  lady, 
rather  quail-like  in  her  plumpness,  and  her  face 
would  have  been  pleasant  to  look  upon  had  it  not 
been  for  the  coldly  studious  expression  with  which 
she  sometimes  regarded  her  clients;  for  Mrs.  Fin- 
nessey was  undoubtedly  a  professional  woman. 

"My  dear !"  she  exclaimed,  advancing  rapidly 
with  just  a  suggestion  of  Rosamonde's  pet  alli- 
gator in  her  eye,  "you're  out  of  key.  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  neglecting  the  Ritual." 

"This  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Ray,"  explained  Rosa- 
monde,  ignoring  the  question. 

"How-do-you-do,  Miss  Ray."  Mrs.  Finnessey's 
sidelong  glance  intimated  that  Miss  Ray  might  be 
responsible  for  the  loss  of  the  mystic  key. 

"Sit  down,"  implored  Rosamonde,  and  when  her 
wish  had  been  complied  with:  "Mrs.  Finnessey,  I 
know  you'll  think  me  horrid,  but  I  just  can't  get 
along  with  these  animals  and  things  any  more. 
The  birds  scream  all  the  time,  the  goldfish  die,  and 
Eustace  just  lies  in  his  tub  and  refuses  to  take  a 
bite  of  anything." 

"He   must   be   worried,"    Mrs.    Finnessey    sug- 


40  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

gested.  "In  his  previous  existence  he  had  a  great 
deal  of  unhappiness " 

"I'll  bet  he  was  the  sort  of  person  one  never 
meets/'  declared  Rosamonde,  whereupon  Emily 
supplemented : 

"There  are  lots  of  human  beings  I  shouldn't  care 
to  feed  in  a  bathtub/' 

"I  just  can't  bear  this  old  Neotheology  any 
more/*  insisted  Rosamonde,  apparently  heartened 
by  the  presence  of  her  cousin. 

"Oh !"     Mrs.  Finnessey  pursed  her  lips. 

"They're  cluttering  the  apartment  all  up.  I  can't 
keep  my  servants  in  this  zoo  and  my  husband  can't 
stand  'em." 

It  was  not  made  plain  whether  Merlin  couldn't 
stand  animals  or  servants,  but  the  statement  threw 
Mrs.  Finnessey  into  a  brown  study.  Emily,  being 
years  cleverer  than  Rosamonde,  sensed  something 
of  the  mental  process  acting  at  that  moment  within 
the  Fad  Finder's  busy  brain. 

"Then  youVe  decided  to  give  it  up?"  Mrs.  Fin- 
nessey asked  after  a  pause. 

"I  think  so."  Then  with  a  sort  of  moan:  "But 
what  shall  I  do  for  a  religion?" 

"That's  it,"  agreed  Mrs.  Finnessey,  coming 
nimbly  back  to  her  profession.  "The  higher  side 
of  our  nature  requires  nourishment  just  as  our 
bodies  crave  food.  Without  its  stimulus  the  spirit 
dies." 

"It  certainly  does,"  wailed  the  child  wife.     "But 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  41 

I  can't  stand  those  animals  any  longer.     I  don't 
believe  they've  got  any  souls  or  anything  much." 

She  waited  for  an  attack  upon  this  impiety,  but 
to  her  surprise  Mrs.  Finnessey  said  in  the  smooth- 
est possible  tone: 

"After  all  the  true  message  is  not  borne  by  the 
lower  forms  of  life.  While  there  is  unhappiness 
in  the  world — oceans  of  social  injustice  inundating 
countless  millions  of  fellow  mortals  all  round  us — 
the  great  work  of  mankind  must  consist  in  the  up- 
raising of  comrades  from  the  mire  of  capitalistic 
slavery." 

Rosamonde  came  out  of  her  misery  long  enough 
to  consider  this  premise. 

"Oh!" 

"In  the  revolutionary  masses  lies  the  great  soul 
of  the  future." 

"Is  that  so?"  Rosamonde  was  beginning  to  take 
an  interest  again.  "I  thought  that  souls  were  in- 
side of  dogs  and  horses  and  alligators " 

But  Mrs.  Finnessey  was  not  to  be  interrupted. 

"I  have  seen  a  new  light."  Then  she  cast  a 
quick,  appraising  glance  toward  Emily  ere  lower- 
ing her  voice  to  a  conversational  level.  "My  dear, 
I  think  you'll  be  thrilled." 

Rosamonde  hesitated  again. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  Merlin,"  she 
confessed.  "He  objects  to  almost  everything  I  do. 
Maybe  he'll  like  this,  whatever  it  is." 

"No,  my  dear.  He'll  detest  it.  Of  course  you 
mustn't  say  a  word  to  him  about  it — not  until  we 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


can  work  on  him  and  show  him  the  light.  But 
Mrs.  Ballymoore  and  Mrs.  Fauntleroy  Howt  and 
almost  everybody  in  the  Antigone  Club  are  holding 
meetings.  It's  all  over  town." 

Emily  fought  down  an  Olympian  giggle  in  her 
foreknowledge  of  what  was  coming. 

"Please  don't  keep  me  waiting  any  longer." 
Rosamonde  fidgeted  in  her  chair.  "I'm  sure  it's 
just  what  I  need.  Hasn't  it  got  a  name?" 

Mrs.  Finnessey  looked  again  at  Emily. 

"Miss  Ray,"  she  said,  "might " 

"Tell?"  chirped  Rosamonde.  "Oh,  no,  she's  my 
dearest  friend.  Do  tell  us  what  it  is!" 

"Bolshevism,"  whispered  Mrs.  Finnessey. 

Emily  bit  through  an  expensive  handkerchief. 

"Bolshevism!"  Rosamonde  sat  back,  her  black 
eyes  wide  with  excitement.  "That's  rather  horrid, 
isn't  it?  Aren't  they  people  who — you  know — 
speak  Russian  and  don't  wash  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing?" 

"Look  at  me,"  smiled  Mrs.  Finnessey.  Indeed 
she  seemed  not  only  washed  but  quite  fastidiously 
cared  for. 

"Then  you're  really  one  of  them?"  gasped  Rosa- 
monde. "How  thrilling!" 

Mrs.  Finnessey  had  now  come  down  from  the 
rather  pedantic  vein  in  which  she  had  begun  and 
was  talking  chattily  on. 

"I  go  to  the  most  wonderful  meetings — Wash- 
ington Square  and  the  Pilsen  School  of  Radical 
Culture.  My  dear,  until  you've  heard  some  of 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


them  talk  you  don't  know  how  delightful  it  is  to 
really  think.  It's  wonderful,  associating  with  the 
lower  classes  and  exchanging  ideas.  We  go  by 
our  first  names  and  call  one  another  comrade.  I've 
been  buying  revolutionary  books  for  Comrade 
Patrick — he's  a  coal  shoveler  out  of  work  because 
his  capitalistic  employer  falsely  swore  that  he  drank 
— and  we're  planning  a  general  revolution  in 
November." 

"Won't  you  let  us  come?"  pleaded  Rosamonde, 
kindly  including  Emily  in  the  program.  "It  would 
be  so  inspiring,  and  it  would  make  Merlin  furious." 

"Poor  Mr.  Valiant  is  a  reactionary,  I  am  afraid," 
came  Mrs.  Finnessey's  kindly  comment. 

"Oh,  is  he?"  Merlin's  wife  brought  her  hands 
together  with  a  renewed  enthusiasm.  "Isn't  it 
splendid  to  have  a  really  good  name  to  call  him 
when  he's  cross?  What's  a  reactionary?" 

"It's  one  of  the  Pilsen  School  words "  Ap- 
parently Mrs.  Finnessey  hadn't  got  that  far.  "It's 
one  of  Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle's  favorite 
words." 

"Walter  Scott  who?" 

"My  dear!  You  haven't  heard  of  Walter  Scott 
Syle?"  Mrs.  Finnessey  addressed  the  rebuke  to 
her  two  listeners,  and  Emily  refrained  from  an- 
nouncing that  she  had  just  posted  a  letter  to  the 
Times  in  the  matter  of  Walter  Scott  Syle. 

"My  dears!  My  dears!"  Mrs.  Finnessey  chided 
on.  "He's  positively  the  last  word  in " 

"Bolshevism?"     The  naughty  Rosamonde  whis- 


44  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

pered  that  deliciously  forbidden  word.  Mrs.  Fin- 
nessey  nodded. 

"He's  editor  of  the  Raw  Deal — a  frightfully 
I.  W.  W.  publication,  you  know — not  dignified  and 
college-bred  like  the  New  Progressive.  But  so- 
ciety is  going  in  for  stronger  and  stronger  opinions. " 

"One  does,"  agreed  Emily,  thinking  of  what  she 
had  heard  about  alcoholism. 

"The  free  soul  requires  it,"  argued  Mrs.  Fin- 
nessey,  her  opinion  quite  concurring  with  what 
Emily  had  been  thinking  on  the  subject  of  drink. 

"Walter  Scott  Syle  was  professor  of  something 
dreadfully  profound  until  he  was  investigated  by 
the  Department  of  Justice  for  encouraging  con- 
scientious objectors — imagine  the  outrage!" 

Mrs.  Finnessey  was  already  delving  into  her  ca- 
pacious handbag,  where  from  she  brought  a  square 
of  folded  newspaper. 

"This  is  a  copy  of  the  Raw  Deal — it's  fascinat- 
ingly awful.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  it  and 
study  the  movement." 

Emily  took  a  peep  over  her  cousin's  shoulder. 
She  had  often  seen  the  politely  disloyal  New  Pro- 
gressive, but  the  sheet  she  now  beheld  was,  as  Mrs. 
Finnessey  had  hinted,  fascinatingly  awful. 

The  front  page  contained  a  cartoon  that  had 
been  drawn  apparently  with  a  stove  poker.  It  rep- 
resented numerous  soldiers,  Americans  on  one  side, 
Germans  on  the  other,  being  driven  to  battle  by 
silk-hatted  gentlemen  who  flourished  whips  and 
were  distinctly  labeled  "Trusts."  The  leading  edi- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  45 

torial  was  headlined  "American  Atrocities  vs.  Ger- 
man/' and  on  the  second  page  there  was  the  portrait 
of  a  workingman  stripped  to  the  waist  and  ap- 
parently quite  insane,  bellowing  "Join  tne  Big 
Union"  under  an  I.  W.  W.  banner. 

"When  are  you  going  to  take  us?"  Rosamonde 
was  clapping  her  hands,  dancing  up  and  down  like 
the  impatient  child  she  was. 

"You  must  be  sure  that  you  are  approaching  it 
in  a  proper  spirit  of  seriousness,"  Mrs.  Finnessey 
warned. 

"Oh,  we  are — aren't  we,  Emmy?  And  think 
how  mad  it  will  make  Merlin." 

"The  Pilsen  School  would  be  rather  advanced 
for  you,  I  think,"  Mrs.  Finnessey  demurred. 
"There  are  some  very  nice  lecture  circles  being 
formed  for  those  who  wish  to  be  enlightened. 
There's  the  Comradeship  Sisterhood  meeting  at 
Mrs.  van  Laerens'  to-morrow  at  three " 

"Will  that  perfectly  dreadful  professor  be 
there?"  shrilled  Rosamonde. 

"Professor  Syle?  Yes,  he  talks  for  half  an 
hour." 

"Oh,  goody!    And  you'll  let  us  meet  him?" 

"I  shall  take  pains  to  arrange  it." 

"I  thought  Mrs.  van  Laerens  and  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore  were  at  outs,"  said  Emily,  having  heard  the 
common  talk. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Ballymoore  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  sisterhood.  She  has  quarreled  with  Professor 
Syle,  I  understand — they  disagree  on  the  subject 


46  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

of  community  bargaining/'  Mrs.  Finnessey  was 
now  arising  to  depart.  "Will  you  pick  me  up  at 
ten  minutes  before  three?"  she  asked,  never  losing 
an  opportunity  to  use  some  one  else's  car. 

"You're  such  a  dear!"  cried  Rosamonde,  and 
kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

"And  you'll  come,  too,  I  hope?"  Mrs.  Finnes- 
sey addressed  this  invitation  to  Emily. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  Miss  Ray  smiled  pleasantly. 
"I  have  an  engagement  for  another  meeting." 

"Radical,  I  hope."  Mrs.  Finnessey  smiled 
sweetly. 

"No,  dental."     Emily  smiled  sweeter  still. 

Mrs.  Finnessey  had  no  sooner  departed  than 
Rosamonde  went  capering  round  the  room  like  a 
child  out  of  school. 

"Come  on!"  she  cried.  "Let's  turn  'em  all 
loose." 

"The  animals?"  asked  her  cousin,  guessing  Rosa- 
monde's  relief. 

"Uh-huh!  I'll  bet  they're  as  bored  with  me  as 
I  am  with  them." 

Already  she  had  rushed  to  the  window  and  lifted 
in  her  arms  a  large  goldfish  bowl  wherein  there 
swam  two  specimens  of  the  pop-eyed,  plumy  little 
monsters  known  to  fanciers  as  "five-tailed."  A 
third  specimen  floated  belly  up,  quite  dead. 

"You  can't  pour  them  out  of  the  window,"  de- 
clared Emily,  seeing  that  this  was  exactly  what  her 
wild  cousin  was  planning  to  do. 

"Why  not?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  47 

"Were  you  ever  hit  in  the  ear  by  a  goldfish  fly- 
ing out  of  a  sixth-story  window?" 

Rosamonde  seemed  to  feel  the  force  of  that  ar- 
gument, for  she  demurred,  the  bowl  still  in  her 
graceful  arms.  It  was  Agnes,  the  parlor  maid, 
who  arrived  just  in  time  to  offer  a  valuable  sug- 
gestion. She  stood  dismally  at  attention  and  it  was 
plain  to  see  that  something  lay  heavy  on  her  mind. 

"What  is  it,  Agnes  ?"  asked  Rosamonde  over  her 
fish  bowl. 

"The  ally-gaitor,  Mrs.  Valiant." 

"Is  he  dead  ?"    This  rather  hopefully. 

"No,  madam,  but  he  do  seem  to  be  very  angry, 
and  he  won't  take  nothin'  in  the  way  o'  food  with- 
out fightin'  for  ut.  I  been  in  service  eleven  years, 
Mrs.  Valiant,  and  I  ain't  never  before  been  called 
on  to  wait  on  snakes  an*  reptiles " 

"That  will  do,  Agnes." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Oh,  Emmy  darling!"  cried  Rosamonde,  splash- 
ing much  water  from  the  bowl  in  the  violence  of 
her  inspiration,  "I'll  tell  you  what  let's  do.  Let's 
feed  Eustace!" 

What  could  Emily  do  but  follow  into  a  spare 
room  and  into  the  elaborate  bathroom?  Upon  the 
edge  of  its  porcelain  tub  Rosamonde  set  the  bowl 
clankingly  and  peered  into  the  depths. 

"Isn't  he  a  sweetheart?"  she  challenged. 

Emily  gazed  and  saw  what  she  saw.  In  the  tepid 
waters  which  half  covered  his  horrid  body  Eustace 
the  alligator  lay  at  ease,  his  flat  brain  torpid  with 


48  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

dreams  of  warm  Miama  which  had  spawned  him. 
From  tip  to  tip  he  measured  four  feet  seven. 

"You're  not  going  to  make  me  sleep  here!" 
gasped  Emily,  measuring  the  distance  from  the  bed 
to  the  tub. 

"No,  darling.  This  is  the  second-best  guest 
room.  Eustace  doesn't  know  it  or  he'd  complain 
about  that,  too." 

Emily  looked  again  upon  Eustace  who,  for  one 
who  harbored  the  soul  of  a  priest  of  Ra,  was  cer- 
tainly an  unlovable  object.  Two  cold,  froglike 
eyes,  set  well  to  the  top  of  his  head,  glared  up  at 
her  as  though  calculating  the  day  when  he  would 
be  of  sufficient  size  to  swallow  her  whole. 

"Hungry,  old  dear?"  asked  Rosamonde,  striv- 
ing to  remain  polite  to  the  ecclesiastical  gentleman 
whom  Eustace  held  in  thrall.  Rosamonde,  acting 
entirely  upon  impulse,  inverted  the  bowl  and  poured 
thirty-six  dollars'  worth  of  goldfish  into  the  water 
where  Eustace  so  serenely  floated.  There  at  once 
developed  in  him  the  activity  of  a  bass.  With  one 
tremendous  flip  of  the  tail  and  an  unpleasant  snap- 
ping of  teeth  he  had  frothed  the  waters  of  the  tub 
into  a  little  tempest.  It  was  all  over  in  a  scram- 
bling second.  Anon  Eustace  lay  again  loglike,  stu- 
pid and  indifferent  of  fate.  One  goldfish — the  dead 
one — was  floating  stomach  up.  The  others  had 
disappeared. 

Quite  gingerly  at  last  Rosamonde  leaned  over 
the  tub  and  plucked  out  the  dead  fish  by  one  of  his 
feathery  streamers.  She  held  the  little  corpse  tempt- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  49 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

ingly  an  inch  above  the  serrated  snout.  Eustace 
lay  perfectly  still,  his  cold  eyes  regarding  her  with 
a  calculating  stare. 

"Mustn't  leave  anything  on  your  plate,"  Emily 
coaxed.  "Mr.  Hoover  wouldn't  like  it." 

Still  no  response.  At  last — for  the  game  proved 
quite  amusing — Rosamonde  lowered  the  golden 
sacrifice  and  tickled  Eustace  on  the  end  of  his  nose. 
Emily  never  knew  how  he  did  it.  There  had  been 
a  horrid  lizard  movement  in  the  tub,  and  when 
with  a  small  scream  Rosamonde  had  jerked  her 
forefinger  away  it  was  crimson  with  blood.  It  was 
ugly  even  to  think  of. 

"He's  bitten  me!"  said  Rosamonde  very  quietly; 
then  as  though  that  were  not  enough  she  began  to 
sob  and  to  repeat :  "He's  bitten  me !" 

"I  see  he  has,"  agreed  Emily,  looking  at  the 
wound  and  finding  to  her  relief  that  it  was  only  a 
scratch.  "Now  come  into  your  room  and  tell  me 
where  the  iodine  is." 

After  Emily  had  administered  first  aid  to  the 
foolish,  Rosamonde  returned  to  the  latticed  window 
with  the  air  of  one  whose  work  is  still  unfinished. 
Calmly  and  sweetly  she  slipped  up  a  sash  until  the 
springlike  air — somewhat  gasolinous  from  innu- 
merable motors  below — sifted  in  and  suggested  an 
infinite  freedom. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Emily,  pre- 
paring to  go  to  her  dentist. 

"Let  them  out,"  declared  Rosamonde. 

The   green   birds    battered   their   tender   wings 


50  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

against  the  slats.  Impulsively  Merlin  Valiant's  ex- 
pensive wife  took  the  cage  in  her  two  hands  and 
carried  it  to  the  open  window  where  she  swung 
wide  the  prison  gate  and  saw  the  frivolous,  tropi- 
cal things  flutter  away,  one  at  a  time,  to  join  the 
sparrows  in  Central  Park. 

'They're  free!"  declared  Rosamonde  with  a 
grandiose  gesture.  "Free  as  all  the  world  should 
be." 

"Yes.  They'll  either  starve  or  freeze,"  replied 
the  practical  Miss  Ray,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  her. 

Apparently  her  week  in  town  was  destined  to  be 
one  of  incident. 


IV 


HER  nerves  agog  after  an  hour  of  combat  with 
one  of  those  stern  scientific  dentists  who  daily 
demonstrate  the  theory  that  no  good  can  be  accom- 
plished without  pain,  Emily  got  herself  back  to 
the  Valiant  apartment.  In  the  pretty  homelike  sit- 
ting room  where  she  had  awaited  the  electric  drill 
she  had  found  time  to  telephone  to  the  office  of 
Green  &  Plevort,  Mules,  and  to  be  informed  that 
Mr.  Browning  had  been  sent  to  Trenton  in  quest 
of  more  interesting  specimens.  This  knowledge 
had  its  uses,  since  it  acted  as  a  counter-irritant 
against  the  dentist's  burr.  Oliver  wouldn't  be  back 
until  to-morrow  afternoon — Ouch!  That  was  a 
nerve!  And  something  might  happen  so  that  she 
would  get  never  a  sight  of  him  during  her  stay  in 
New  York. 

It  was  a  quarter  past  six  when  she  again  entered 
the  Gothic  hall  of  the  Valiant  apartment.  There 
she  paused  a  space  and  listened;  for  another  sound 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  strident  menagerie  call. 
It  was  a  deep,  thirsty  chuck-chuck-chuckle,  deliv- 
ered in  a  castinet  tempo  above  a  rich  masculine 
bray.  Could  it  be  that  Merlin — known  in  his  office 
as  the  Turribul-Tempered  Mr.  Valiant — had  re- 
turned in  a  forgiving  mood? 

51 


52  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

It  would  seem  so,  for  the  first  sight  that  greeted 
her  eyes  upon  entering  the  large  room  was  that  of 
a  rubicund  gentleman  wielding  a  cocktail  shaker 
and  being  worshiped  by  two  aproned  assistants. 
Rosamonde,  her  pretty  face  wreathed  in  excited 
smiles,  stood  at  attention  by  the  empty  bird  cage. 

"Hello,  Emmy!"  cried  old  Merlin,  changing  the 
shaker  to  his  left  hand  in  order  to  greet  his  guest. 
"Excuse  my  cold  palm — a  cold  hand  a  warm  heart, 
you  know." 

"Hello,  Merlin!"  cried  Emily  with  equal  enthu- 
siasm, as  she  returned  his  energetic  clasp.  She  al- 
ways wanted  to  call  him  Uncle  Merlin  or  Mr.  Val- 
iant. 

"Certainly  mighty  glad  to  see  you  aboard. 
Agnes,  bring  a  glass  for  Miss  Ray — Oh,  yes,  you'll 
have  one,  Emmy — just  a  little  one.  No  place  seems 
like  home  to  me  unless  I  can  have  my  cocktail." 

"He's  had  two  already,"  remarked  Rosamonde, 
more  in  praise  than  censure. 

"Shut  up,  Puggy!  You're  talking  like  the  Band 
of  Hope  that's  running  the  country — into  the 
ground."  Mr.  Valiant,  it  might  be  stated  here,  was 
of  the  breed  who  associate  all  calamities,  natural 
or  artificial,  to  the  fact  that  the  League  of  Nations 
covenant  was  not  drawn  up  by  the  Republican 
Party.  "As  if  it  wasn't  bad  enough  with  gin  at 
four  and  a  quarter,  wholesale,  and  having  to  hide  it 
at  that  to  keep  the  Holy  Willies  from  taking  it 
away  from  you.  By  George,  if  they  try  to  mon- 
key with  my  wine  cellar  I'll  start  a  revolution " 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  53 

"Tut,  Merlin!"  cried  Emily.  "Leave  revolution 
to  the  Bolsheviks." 

"Bolsheviks!"  he  growled,  his  complexion  red- 
dening from  American  Beauty  to  Bermuda  beet  as 
his  little  gray  mustache  bristled  and  his  prominent 
chin  obtruded.  "Don't  mention  those  cutthroats!" 

"He  hates  'em!"  parroted  Rosamonde  from  her 
bird  cage. 

Merlin  growled  as  he  filled  three  glasses  which 
stood  on  the  tray  of  a  little  drink  wagon. 

"Just  try  that,  Emmy.  A  sip  won't  hurt  you 
after  a  hard  day  at  the  dentist's." 

At  the  mention  of  the  dentist's  Merlin  winked 
one  of  his  little  gray  eyes.  Had  Rosamonde  told 
him  that  the  needs  of  Emily's  teeth  had  been  but 
an  expedient  whereby  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  her 
heart  ?  It  seemed  so,  for  as  she  took  a  displeasing 
swallow  of  the  drink,  which  she  loathed  with  all 
the  energy  that  Merlin  extended  toward  radical 
agitators,  he  smacked  his  seamy  lips  and  went  on: 

"Puggy  and  I  have  been  arranging  a  little  dinner 
party  for  to-morrow  night — a  Romeo  and  Juliet 
party.  If  Romeo's  in  town  ask  him  up.  It  serves 
old  Carmen  right — she  always  was  a  stubborn  old 
fool." 

"Ungrateful  monster!"  laughed  Emily,  taking 
occasion  to  hide  her  cocktail  behind  a  silver-framed 
photograph. 

"Oh,  I  haven't  forgotten  the  way  she  brought 
me  and  Puggy  together,"  he  cried,  slipping  an  arm 
round  his  adored  one's  slender  waist.  "But  we'd 


54  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

have  come  together  some  way,  wouldn't  we, 
Fuggy?  You  can't  keep  two  natural  pals  apart, 
can  you,  Puggy?" 

"Look  at  my  poor  sore  finger!"  lisped  Rosa- 
monde  in  a  baby  voice,  as  she  uplifted  the  rag- 
bound  digit. 

"Did  bad  old  Eustace  bite  my  dollkins?"  he 
gurgled.  Then,  to  Emily's  relief,  he  unclasped  his 
heart's  desire  and  stood  a  pace  away. 

"Emmy,"  he  said,  "you're  certainly  a  saving  in- 
fluence in  my  home.  This  morning  I  was  nothing 
but  the  keeper  of  a  zoological  garden;  to-night  I 
come  in  and  find  that  every  bird  has  flown  out  of 
the  window  and  Eustace  has  eaten  the  goldfish. 
Good  work!  I  really  believe  Puggy  is  beginning 
to  grow  up." 

Emily  was  about  to  protest  her  innocence  of  the 
whole  reform  when  Rosamonde  interrupted,  pout- 
ing. 

"I  don't  want  any  more  birds  or  monkeys  or 
things." 

"Just  listen  to  her !"  he  jubilated.  "I  knew  she'd 
get  out  of  this  fad  business.  It's  a  sort  of  young 
disease  like  measles." 

Again  she  held  up  her  sore  finger. 

"And  old  Eustace  bit  me!"  she  cooed.  "Kiss  it 
and  make  it  well." 

"Um — ah!"  Old  Merlin  looked  ever  so  sly  as 
he  delved  into  a  pocket  of  his  swelling  waistcoat. 
"I've  got  something  better  than  kisses  for  sore 
fingers." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  55 

With  a  dramatic  flourish  he  brought  out  the 
magic  finger  cure  and  held  it  up  so  that  it  glittered 
wonderfully  in  the  north  light.  It  was  square  and 
flat  with  an  icy  surface;  to  the  unsympathetic  eye 
it  might  have  looked  like  a  small  rectangle  of  plate 
glass  but  that  rays  of  electric  brilliancy  shot  the 
smooth  surface  as  it  turned  slowly  between  Merlin's 
fat  fingers. 

"You  darling!"  Rosamonde  fairly  shrieked, 
rushing  to  him  and  striving  to  pull  the  treasure 
down  from  its  place  aloft.  "You  haven't  gone  and 
bought  it,  that  wonderful,  that  adorable  diamond!" 

Again  she  tried  to  snatch  it  from  him. 

"That's  the  one  you  saw  in  Twillaway's  win- 
dow," he  teased.  "Only  it's  eleven  carats  instead 
of  ten." 

"Give  it  to  me  before  I  die!" 

"Just  a  minute.  You  promise  not  to  have  any 
more  fads  or  animals  or  trained  religions  or " 

This  covenant  might  have  gone  the  full  fourteen 
points  had  not  Merlin  Valiant  walked  over  to  the 
bay  window  as  though  to  gain  a  more  intimate  view 
of  the  ring.  He  rested  his  knee  on  the  cushioned 
seat;  something  crackled,  shallow  and  papery,  and 
the  impertinent  headlines  of  the  Raw  Deal  doubled 
up  and  stared  him  in  the  face.  Emily  bit  her  lip 
in  anticipation  of  the  scene  that  was  to  follow  poor 
Rosamonde's  silly  carelessness. 

"What's  this  ?"  he  asked  suddenly,  leaning  down. 

"It's  a  paper " 


56 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  see  it  is.  It's  a  rotten  paper,  too.  Who 
brought  this  sheet  into  the  house?" 

"Mrs.  Finnessey  gave  it  to  me.     She " 

"Have  you  been  reading  it?" 

"Well,  I  just  looked  over  some  of  the  edi- 
torials  " 

"Do  you  know  that  this  paper  is  preaching  an- 
archy, socialism,  free  love  and  destruction  of  prop- 
erty?" 

His  face  had  grown  deep  purple.  With  the  new 
ring  clenched  in  his  fist  he  was  brandishing  the 
paper  above  his  head  as  Liberty  brandishes  her 
torch  of  freedom. 

"It  seemed  to  me  to  be  mild  enough,"  she  whim- 
pered. "It  just  wanted  the  government  to  wake 
up  and  not  to  be  tyrannical  to  people.  That's  what 
you  believe,  isn't  it?" 

"Do  you  know,"  he  ranted  on,  "that  Syle,  who 
calls  himself  the  editor,  is  being  watched  by  the 
authorities,  that  he  ought  to  be  shot  and  would  be 
if  this  country  was  any  good?" 

"No,  I  didn't  know  it." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Rosamonde. 
Neither  Mrs.  Finnessey  nor  any  other  of  that  tribe 
are  going  to  bring  seditious  literature  into  my 
house.  Understand  ?  For  that's  where  I  draw  the 
line." 

Emily  stood  frozen  in  the  circumambient  frost. 
She  had  long  sought  the  place  where  Merlin  drew 
the  line,  and  now  she  had  found  it. 

With   an   impatient   gesture   and    an   apoplectic 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  57 

growl  Merlin  Valiant  threw  open  a  leaded  sash  of 
the  bay  window.  Then  he  tore  the  Raw  Deal  twice 
across  its  accursed  face  and  permitted  the  scraps 
to  flutter  away  into  the  same  space  through  which 
Rosamonde's  aristocratic  birds  had  winged  their 
way  to  freeze  or  be  free  among  the  sparrows  of  the 
park. 

When  he  turned  again  his  face  had  grown 
calmer.  He  stood  a  moment  considering  the  new 
diamond,  then  slipped  it  back  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket. 


DESPITE  the  growing  cloud  over  her  fair  for- 
tunes, Rosamonde  just  would  go  to  Mrs.  van 
Laerens'  and  join  the  Comrade  Sisterhood  in  its 
adoration  of  Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle.  The 
Turribul  Tempered  Mr.  Valiant  had  gone  to  his 
office  before  the  ladies  of  his  household  arose; 
neither  Rosamonde  nor  her  cousin  had  slept  very 
well,  as  was  confessed  at  a  bedside  breakfast. 

Life's  current,  which  had  run  smoothly  enough 
at  Plainview,  was  becoming  crooked  and  compli- 
cated for  Emily.  Just  before  going  to  the  dentist's 
she  got  Oliver  on  the  telephone  and  was  cheered 
by  his  hearty  acceptance  of  Rosamonde' s  invita- 
tion to  dinner  that  evening.  But  she  was  worried 
about  her  headstrong  little  cousin  who  swore  by 
all  her  gods  of  wood  and  tin  that  she  would  go 
where  she  pleased,  Merlin  or  no  Merlin,  and  that 
Emily  should  go  with  her. 

As  a  result  of  it  all  at  the  hour  of  three  the 
young  women,  discreetly  guarded  by  Mrs.  Finnes- 
sey,  were  wheeled  in  a  procession  of  plutocratic 
vehicles  through  the  van  Laerens'  baronial  gate 
and  up  to  the  frosty  fagade  of  the  van  Laerens' 
town  house.  Coats  of  sable,  ermine,  monkey  skin, 
coon  skin  and  seal  were  advancing,  borne  on  dainty 

58 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  59 

shoulders,  filing  past  the  bronze  doors  and  into  the 
great  foyer  where  noble  gentlemen  in  livery  directed 
the  procession  up  the  wide  staircase  and  into  the 
golden  drawing-room  on  the  second  floor. 

"The  furs  at  least  are  Russian,"  observed  Emily 
to  Rosamonde,  whereat  Mrs.  Finnessey  nudged  her 
and  said,  "Sh !"  Emily  hated  being  hushed  by  Mrs. 
Finnessey. 

At  the  drawing-room  door  that  faultless  hostess, 
Mrs.  van  Laerens,  shook  hands  and  gave  every  one 
her  long-faced  cynic  smile. 

"How  do  you  do,  Rosa?"  she  addressed  Mrs. 
Valiant,  then  whispered:  "I  hope  your  husband's 
furious.  Mine  is.  Get  a  program  and  find  your- 
self a  seat." 

The  admirable  Finnessey  found  three  gilt  chairs 
well  to  the  fore  near  a  small  dais  which  was  ap- 
propriately covered  with  a  red-velvet  carpet.  Sev- 
eral young  ladies  wearing  the  uniform  of  freedom, 
which  same  is  a  smock  frock,  passed  up  and  down 
the  aisles  offering  programs.  The  exercises  were 
to  be  fashionably  brief,  according  to  the  announce- 
ment; Madame  Snarki,  operatic  soprano,  would 
sing  Russian  folk  songs,  Professor  Syle  would  lec- 
ture on  "The  Demigod  Fallacy,"  and  there  would  be 
fifteen  minutes  of  general  discussion.  Meanwhile 
the  Sisterhood  came  trooping  in  to  cast  down  thou- 
sands of  dollars'  worth  of  sables  and  find  advan- 
tageous seating  space. 

"How-do-you-do?"  murmured  Mrs.  Finnessey 
at  regular  intervals,  going  off  like  a  cuckoo  clock 


60  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

as  she  bowed  right  and  left  to  the  great  ladies  in 
whom  she  bartered.  Mrs.  Charlemagne  Droon, 
daring  as  usual  in  an  afternoon  frock  of  lizard 
green,  came  in  with  two  indefinite  females  and 
took  the  seats  just  in  front  of  Mrs.  Finnessey's 
class  in  emancipation.  Mrs.  Droon,  who  seldom 
appeared  in  public  without  somebody  to  flirt  with, 
looked  uncomfortable  for  a  moment,  then  she 
turned  and  spied  the  party  behind  her. 

"Hello,  Rosa!"  she  cried;  then,  "How-do-you- 
do,  Mrs.  Finnessey.  Isn't  it  thrilling?" 

"Perfectly  thrilling!"  agreed  Rosamonde,  rather 
flattered  at  the  attention. 

"There  ought  to  be  an  uprising  of  some  sort," 
said  one  of  the  indefinite  ladies. 

"Yes,"  remarked  Mrs.  Droon,  evidently  with  in- 
tent to  snub.  "But  isn't  it  full  of  hard  words!" 

"It's  dreadfully  deep,"  said  Rosamonde,  hoping 
apparently  that  Mrs.  Droon  wasn't  going  to  quiz 
her  on  the  phraseology. 

"But  deep  things  are  always  thrilling.  Do  you 
know  what  a  soviet  is?  It's  something  they  wear 
when  they  go  into  battle,  isn't  it?" 

Rosamonde  was  stumped. 

"It's  a  sort  of  committee,"  said  Emily,  coming 
to  the  rescue. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  You've  gone  into  it  very  ear- 
nestly, haven't  you?"  Her  intonation  indicated 
that  Emily  wasn't  quite  right.  "I'm  dreadfully 
ignorant  about  anything  political.  My  husband 
says  I  ought  to  vote;  but  the  polling  places  are  so 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  61 

badly  ventilated,  don't  you  think?  My  word,  if 
that  isn't  Flora  Hannibal!"  Mrs.  Droon's  eye- 
brows elevated  themselves  from  a  Roman  arch  to  a 
high  Gothic.  "Of  course  she  would  be  going  in  for 
reform — since  Charlie's  trip  to  Jamaica." 

"Modern  society  is  basically  wrong,"  one  of  the 
indefinite  ladies  was  telling  her  neighbor.  "Do  you 
remember  if  that  is  a  quotation  from  Bernard  Shaw 
or " 

"My  dear,"  Mrs.  Droon  was  asking,  as  she 
leaned  far  back  toward  Rosamonde,  "do  you  still 
have  that  Creole  hairdresser  from  Saltz?" 

"I  can't  get  her  any  more.    She's " 

"You  know  why,  don't  you?"  Mrs.  Droon 
rolled  her  fine  eyes  preparatory  to  a  revelation  when 
Mrs.  van  Laerens  took  the  dais  and  rapped  for 
order.  At  the  same  instant  two  figures,  misplaced 
in  that  galaxy  of  wealth,  came  shuffling  down  the 
aisle.  Both  were  male  and  both  were  odd.  The 
foremost,  a  teeny-weeny  Japanese,  wore  a  vel- 
veteen jacket,  black  dress  trousers  with  stripes 
down  the  leg,  soiled  white  spats  and  lemon-colored 
gloves.  The  hindermost,  a  most  dangerous  per- 
son, wore  his  wiry  black  hair  cut  Buster  Brown 
fashion,  exaggerating  the  savage  glitter  of  his 
large  white  teeth;  the  wide  red  sash  encircling  his 
body  might  have  concealed  any  number  of  lethal 
weapons. 

"Mr.  Barnum  had  the  right  idea,"  whispered 
Emily. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"Which  one  is  Professor  Syle?"  whispered 
Rosamonde. 

"Neither,"  whispered  Mrs.  Droon.  "They're  his 
bodyguard.  I  saw  them  at  Mrs.  Trowler's  last 
week.  The  little  one's  called  Comrade  Niki  or 
Kicki  or  something  absurd.  The  tall  one  with  the 
sash  is  a  Mexican  bandit  who " 

"Might  I  ask  for  order?"  suggested  Mrs.  van 
Laerens,  and  calm  prevailed. 

"Ladies  of  the  Sisterhood/'  began  her  aristo- 
cratic intonation,  "I  shall  not  mar  the  splendid 
thoughts  of  Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle  by  an 
unnecessary  introduction.  We  have  come  here 
with  open  minds,  and  although  we  might  not  agree 
with  him  in  every  particular  we  all  admit,  I  think, 
that  something  is  wrong  with — with  the  general 
condition  of  things." 

"What's  happened  to  Gertie?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Droon,  again  leaning  back.  "I  didn't  know  her 
secretary  wrote  so  well " 

" We  will  now  hear  Madame  Snarki  in  Rus- 
sian folk  songs." 

After  Madame  Snarki's  admirable  combat  with 
alien  consonants,  persisting  through  three  encores, 
Mrs.  van  Laerens  again  took  the  platform  and  in 
her  best  ballroom  manner  introduced  the  speaker 
of  the  afternoon. 

Emily,  who  had  been  prepared  to  see  something 
original  in  hair  or  necktie,  confessed  her  disap- 
pointment in  the  editor  of  the  Raw  Deal.  He  was 
a  normal-appearing  young  man  in  a  nut-brown  suit 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  63 

that  exaggerated  the  strawberry  tints  of  his  com- 
plexion and  the  auburn  lights  in  his  eyes  and  hair. 
Aside  from  the  fact  that  his  cravat  was  out  of  key 
with  his  color  scheme  and  his  shoes  were  of  a 
shapeless  hobgoblin  style  he  gave  the  effect  of  one 
well  broken  to  the  drawing-room.  He  had  a  lean 
handsome  head,  forcible  gestures  and  an  air  of 
conviction. 

"Comrades — if  I  may  have  the  privilege  of  call- 
ing you  by  that  name,"  he  was  beginning,  when  a 
flush  of  annoyance  passed  over  his  reddish  fea- 
tures. The  cause  of  that  annoyance,  a  slender, 
middle-aged  man  who  seemed  both  to  smile  and  to 
walk  with  a  smirk,  was  standing  in  the  aisle,  beau- 
tifully poised  in  his  faultless  afternoon  apparel. 

"There's  a  good  seat  right  here  in  front,  Com- 
rade Kroll,"  suggested  the  orator,  pointing  to  a 
vacant  chair. 

"Awfully  sorry  to  be  late,"  apologized  Comrade 
Kroll  in  a  lisping  voice,  as  he  strolled  gracefully 
forward. 

"Who  is  that?"  whispered  Rosamonde. 

"Justinian  Kroll — the  New  Progressive,  you 
know,"  whispered  Mrs.  Droon,  naming  the  editor 
who  was  then  dictating  the  mode  of  fashionable 
radicalism. 

"S-s-s-sh!"  came  a  warning  from  behind,  for 
Professor  Syle  was  again  opening  up. 

"I  have  chosen  for  my  theme  this  afternoon  the 
Demigod  Fallacy,  a  fallacy  which  we  can,  with  a 
little  patience,  trace  down  the  ages  from  the  Phceni- 


64  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

cian  myths,  through  the  Norse  sagas  ^to  our  modern 
school  histories — which  are,  by  the  way,  far  less 
accurate  than  the  Niebelungen  Lied.  From  the  be- 
ginning of  time  history  has  been  written  by  slaves 
at  the  behest  of  tyrants  for  the  consumption  of 
other  slaves  who  have  been  compelled  to  swallow 
the  sacred  words  at  the  point  of  a  spear." 

"Isn't  he  thrilling?"  asked  Mrs.  Droon,  looking 
back. 

".  .  .  And  what  is  this  Demigod  Fallacy?" 

No  one  in  the  audience  seemed  able  to  answer 
the  question  save  the  Japanese  and  Mexican  social- 
ists and  Mr.  Justinian  Kroll,  who  sat  stiff  and  su- 
perior, his  arms  folded  across  his  faultless  waist- 
coat. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  volunteered  Syle,  stepping  to 
the  edge  of  the  platform.  "It  is  the  drunkenness 
of  power.  Caligula,  mad  with  the  poison,  raged 
through  his  palaces  as  he  ordered  the  proletariat  of 
his  time  to  crucifixion  and  torment.  More  remote- 
ly Samson  who,  we  are  told,  was  possessed  of 
superhuman  strength,  carried  away  city  gates;  we 
have  to  take  the  chronicler's  word  for  it.  But  this 
we  do  know  for  certain:  A  little  woman  with  a 
pair  of  shears  cut  away  Samson's  locks  and  he 
fainted  from  weakness." 

The  Mexican  Bolshevist  shook  his  flowing  mane 
and  stirred  nervously. 

"Robbed  of  his  egocentric  mania  for  leadership 
Samson  was  a  poor  thing  indeed.  But  the  shears 
of  Delilah  were  but  the  forceful  protest  of  the 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  65 

many  against  the  tyranny  of  the  few.  Every  hair 
that  fell  from  his  mighty  head  was  but  an  expres- 
sion of  the  popular  will,  gone  forever  from  him. 
Delilah  was  among  the  earliest  and  most  effective 
propagandists  of  revolution;  one  of  those  who  first 
realized  that  concentration  of  power  spelled  dis- 
solution of  justice." 

"Isn't  his  vocabulary  magnificent?"  whispered 
Mrs.  Droon,  but  Emily  was  now  rather  inclined  to 
do  the  hushing.  There  was  something  almost 
pathetic  in  the  picture  of  this  blousy  radical,  false 
prophet  though  he  might  be,  thundering  his  poetry 
in  the  face  of  these  magpies  who  had  gathered  to 
chatter  round  him  as  they  would  round  a  novelty 
in  male  toe-dancing.  The  violence  of  his  speech 
seemed  to  miss  fire  on  the  suave  gold  enameled 
pilasters  of  Mrs.  van  Laerens's  drawing-room. 
Much  as  Emily  Ray  despised  his  calling,  she  despised 
more  the  silly  clique  that  had  brought  him  there. 

"But  we  have  passed  the  age  of  myth,"  he  was 
thundering  on.  "The  demigods  of  to-day  are  self- 
appointed  and  self-estimated.  They  call  them- 
selves, if  you  please,  bosses,  presidents,  general 
managers,  field  marshals,  kaisers,  chief  executives. 
The  intellectuals  are  constantly  amused  by  ingeni- 
ous editorials  to  the  effect  that  efficiency  cannot  be 
obtained  without  centralization  of  control.  The 
Demigod  Fallacy  again.  Our  learned  Supreme 
Court  supports  this  fallacy,  arguing  backward 
from  the  conclusion  to  their  own  manufactured 
hypothesis.  Our  comrades  among  the  laboring 


66  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

classes  have  considered  this  matter  on  their  own 
account  and  are  asking  the  question :  Who  under- 
stands a  railroad — the  engineer  at  the  throttle  or 
the  demigod  in  some  remote  office  building?" 

"Wretched  poor  form,  don't  you  think?'*  Mrs. 
Droon  was  whispering;  for  the  rabid  reference  to 
engineers  and  office-buildings  seemed  to  have  put 
something  of  a  damper  on  the  assemblage.  Emily 
lost  full  ten  minutes  of  his  subsequent  remarks  in 
a  study  of  that  audience,  now  casting  meaningful 
looks,  now  whispering  together,  now  making  sym- 
pathetic gestures  toward  Mrs.  van  Laerens,  whose 
face  grew  longer  and  longer  as  the  diatribe  went 
on,  skipping  merrily  from  office  building  to  office 
building,  sparing  neither  manager,  clerk  nor  ste- 
nographer. 

The  dangerous  crisis  soon  passed,  however,  for 
Professor  Syle  had  now  leaped  boldly  from  the 
particular  to  the  general.  Nobody  in  the  audience 
minded  capitalism,  as  an  impersonal  sin,  getting  its 
share  of  cudgeling.  When  the  speaker  turned  to 
international  politics,  and  intimated  that  the  war 
should  be  laid  to  the  capitalistic  greed  of  the  Brit- 
ish Empire,  a  positive  sigh  of  relief  arose,  save 
from  two  ladies  of  strong  pro-Ally  sympathies, 
who  left  the  room. 

"I  didn't  think  it  would  be  like  that,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Droon. 

"He  should  be  listened  to  with  an  open  mind,*' 
declared  Mrs.  Finnessey,  not  to  be  defeated  in  her 
fad. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  67 

But  Professor  Syle's  philippic  was  drawing  to  a 
close  in  a  pyrotechnic  display  of  hard  words. 

"...  The  hierarchy,  the  oligarchy,  the  hegem- 
onous  bureaucracy  are  alike  pitiful  anachronisms 
in  the  view  of  an  enlightened  proletariat.  An  ad- 
vanced rationalism  must  challenge  an  archaic  chau- 
vinism. Since  capitalism  is  soluble,  socialism  in- 
dissoluble, who  shall  continue  to  deify  the  hallu- 
cinations of  power-mad  individuals?" 

The  speaker  paused  and  suggested  a  general  dis- 
cussion. It  occurred  to  Emily  that  perhaps  no  one 
would  deny  what  he  said  because  nobody  quite 
understood  what  it  was  all  about.  But  the  earnest, 
serious  faces,  all  bent  forward  like  sunflowers 
toward  the  sun,  gave  the  lie  to  her  cynic  thought. 
She  felt  the  least  bit  sleepy  in  the  heavy  air.  She 
wished  that  somebody  would  applaud  or  that  Pro- 
fessor Syle  would  make  a  joke.  The  silence  con- 
vinced her  that  his  lecture  had  not  been,  on  the 
whole,  a  successful  experiment. 

"Professor  Syle,"  at  last  spoke  a  timid-voiced 
little  lady,  rising  with  many  blushes,  "what  do  you 
think  about  general  education?" 

"It  should  be  universal,"  he  replied  without  hesi- 
tation. 

"But  how  can  one  send  one's  children  to  public 
schools " 

"Are  you  asking  as  a  student  or  as  the  mother 
of  children?"  the  lecturer  interrupted. 

The  well-bred  silence  suggested  a  faux  pas. 


68  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"It's  Sally  Rountree — an  old  maid!"  whispered 
Mrs.  Droon,  the  incorrigible. 

"I  speak  as  an  impersonal  investigator,"  snapped 
Miss  Rountree.  "And  I  ask,  how  can  one  send 
one's  children  to  public  schools  to  be  corrupted  by 
children  of  the  slums?" 

"Under  communistic  rule  there  will  be  no  slums," 
he  replied  coldly,  "and  where  there  are  no  slums 
there  is  no  corruption." 

"Thank  you."     Miss  Rountree  sat  down. 

"Bah !"  It  was  the  black  man  with  the  danger- 
ous teeth  and  the  Buster  Brown  hair  who  shot  up- 
ward, waving  his  arms.  "I  am  a  Villista.  I  come 
from  Mehico,  where  public  schools  are  not.  False! 
All  false!  School-teachers  should  be  shot." 

"We  all  have  open  minds,  Comrade  Alfonzo," 
agreed  Professor  Syle,  apparently  untouched  by 
the  threat  to  all  pedagogues.  "Any  other  ques- 
tions?" 

From  his  seat  well  to  the  fore  Justinian  Kroll, 
editor  of  the  New  Progressive,  arose  slowly  and 
stood,  arms  still  folded,  lips  still  smiling,  as  he  cast 
his  eyes  once  over  the  ballroom  as  though  well 
aware  of  society's  backing  and  approval. 

"Professor  Syle." 

"Yes,  Comrade  Kroll." 

The  two  men  stood  facing  each  other,  the  one 
bending  slightly  down,  the  other  still  superior  de- 
spite his  inferior  position,  suggested  to  Emily  some 
deep-grounded  rivalry,  some  jealousy  that  had  all 
but  grown  to  hatred. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  69 

"Of  course  we  all  agree  on  the  great  essentials 
of  world  revolution,"  began  the  smooth  voice.  "I 
understand  you  to  speak  of  industrial  leadership  as 
insanity  of  power.  I  do  not  mean  to  take  issue 
with  one  of  your  distinction,  Professor  Syle,  but 
should  one  rightfully  include  power  in  the  cata- 
logue of  psychopathic  disturbances?" 

"You  object  to  my  phraseology,  Comrade  Kroll?" 

"I  should  call  it  a  bit— forcible,  Professor  Syle." 

"Then  I  withdraw  it,  Comrade  Kroll.  Forcible 
utterances  should  not  be  made  in  the  presence  of 
the  New  Progressive" 

Justinian  Kroll  sat  down,  still  smiling.  The 
room  began  to  buzz.  The  meeting  had  apparently 
decided  to  adjourn.  As  Professor  Syle,  amidst 
discreet  congratulations  here  and  there  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  sizable  throng,  came  down  the  aisle, 
Rosamonde  Valiant  broke  into  a  storm  of  supplica- 
tions. 

"Mrs.  Finnessey,  he'll  be  gone  before  we  know 
it.  I  simply  must  meet  him !" 

"Look  out,"  warned  Emily.  "If  Merlin  gets  a 
look  at  him  the  ground  will  shake  for  miles 
around." 

"Oh,  here  he  comes!"  cried  Rosamonde,  folding 
her  useless  hands. 

"He's  dreadfully  difficile  when  he's  not  in  the 
mood  for  it,"  said  Rosamonde's  mentor,  discour- 
aged perhaps  because  Syle's  young  popularity 
seemed  to  be  swaying  in  the  balance. 

A  moment  later  Emily  found  him  standing  alone 


70  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

in  the  aisle,  for  the  crowd  had  reacted  toward  Jus- 
tinian Kroll,  leaving  Syle  momentarily  stranded. 
Rosamonde  bounded  forward,  dragging  Mrs.  Fin* 
nessey  with  her,  and  Emily  was  surprised  at  the 
radical's  sudden  affability.  His  air  seemed  to  have 
changed  from  one  of  lofty  patronage  to  a  graceful, 
easy  social  gait. 

"How-do-you-do,  Mrs.  Valiant?"  he  was  heard 
to  say  as  he  took  her  hand.  "You  didn't  come  as 
an  enemy,  I  hope?" 

"No — I  just — came,"  she  faltered  with  a  radiant 
smile,  crushed  under  his  greatness. 

"I  stand  corrected,"  he  smiled.  "To  the  open 
mind  there  should  be  no  such  word  as  enemy." 

Emily  stood  studying  his  shoes;  was  there  some- 
thing in  his  religion  that  demanded  these  prepos- 
terous brogans? 

"Probably  you  think  me  awfully  ignorant,"  fal- 
tered Rosamonde,  while  Emily  wished  that  Mrs. 
Finnessey  would  come  to  the  girl's  rescue.  But  that 
helpful  person  stood  aside,  maintaining  a  fixed 
smile. 

"All  educated  people  are  ignorant,"  he  informed 
her.  "The  great  inspirations  come  from  the  illiter- 
ate. Education  cramps  judgment  and  makes  for 
prejudice.  Sixty  per  cent,  of  the  Russian  peasantry 
are  unable  to  read  or  write." 

"The  average  is  pretty  well  made  up  by  the  Rus- 
sians who  do  write,"  suggested  Emily  by  way  of 
conversation. 

"I  can  read  and  write,"  explained  Rosamonde, 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  71 

"and  I'm  sure  you'll  find  me  awfully — capitalistic." 

"Vladimir  Hitch  Ulianoff  comes  of  the  capital- 
istic aristocracy,"  he  replied  with  great  simplicity. 

"And  I  never  heard  of  him,"  wailed  Rosa- 
monde. 

"He  is  Nicholas  Lenine,  premier  of  the  Red  Re- 
public!" 

"You  always  call  Russians  by  two  or  three  sets 
of  names,  don't  you?"  suggested  Emily.  "I  sup- 
pose they  have  to  keep  a  few  to  use  when  they're 
escaping.  But  it  must  make  it  terribly  difficult  at 
elections  to  know  who  you're  voting  for." 

"All  this  is  simplified  by  the  soviet,"  he  explained 
just  a  trifle  tartly. 

"Comrade  Rosamonde  and  her  cousin,"  Mrs. 
Finnessey  broke  in  at  this  point,  "have  come  to  be 
instructed/' 

"Yes,  I've  come  to  be  instructed,"  Rosamonde 
eagerly  echoed. 

"One  of  the  encouraging  indications  in  our  re- 
volt," he  told  them  both,  beaming  impartially,  "is 
the  enlightened  spirit  with  which  representatives 
of  the  so-called  upper  classes  have  flocked  to  our 
banners." 

"Oh,  if  you  would  only  teach  me!"  Rosamonde 
pleaded. 

"Of  course  you  would  have  to  cast  aside  a  great 
deal  of  mental  and  social  driftwood." 

"Couldn't  you  come  and  have  tea  with  me?"  she 
asked  impulsively,  as  though  some  outer  voice  had 
prompted  her. 


72 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"That's  awfully  nice  of  you.  I  have  rather  a 
full  program  for  the  next  fortnight,  but  after 
that " 

"Excuse  me." 

The  three  looked  round  toward  the  interloping 
voice.  The  black  man  with  the  Buster  Brown  hair 
stood  showing  his  large  teeth  and  gesturing  se- 
cretively. 

"Do  you  want  me,  Comrade  Alfonzo?" 

"Pleez.     Wan  minute.     Verra  important." 

Professor  Syle  stepped  a  few  chair  rows  up  the 
aisle  and  stood  in  half -whispered  conference  with 
the  dangerous  Villista.  Ever  and  anon  the  brown- 
ish hands  would  go  up  and  the  bluish  locks  would 
shake  while  snakelike  glances  would  be  directed 
first  toward  Rosamonde's  group,  then  toward  Mrs. 
van  Laerens.  Finally  the  great  lady  came  down 
the  aisle  and  addressed  Professor  Syle  with  well- 
tempered  cordiality. 

"We're  having  tea.     Won't  you  stay?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  van  Laerens,"  replied  Syle 
rudely.  "I  never  take  tea." 

"I'm  so  sorry.  Awfully  nice  of  you  to  come. 
Your  lecture  was  splendid — quite  inspiring,  I  mean 
to  say." 

"Thank  you,"  growled  Syle,  and  deigned  to  re- 
ceive her  well-bred  hand. 

"And,  Rosa,"  sang  out  Mrs.  van  Laerens,  "you'll 
stay,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks,  I  wish  I  could,"  lied  the  little  plotter. 
"Merlin,  you  know." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  73 

"Give  the  old  bear  my  love.     Good-bye!" 

Mrs.  van  Laerens  kissed  her  hand  and  departed 
to  join  her  guests. 

"You  will  come  to  tea  with  me,  won't  you?" 
persisted  Rosamonde  in  her  baby-talk  voice. 

"This  afternoon?"  asked  Syle. 

"Any  time  you  say." 

"I'll  come  with  you  now,"  he  declared. 

Emily  almost  fainted.  What  in  the  world  had 
that  Aztec  said  to  him  to  cause  this  immediate  face- 
about?  And  what  was  Rosamonde  going  to  do 
with  Merlin  in  case  of  a  collision? 

"I'll  stay  here,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said  Mrs. 
Finnessey,  instinctively  choosing  the  richer  of  her 
two  patronesses. 

"You  must  come  with  me,"  whispered  Rosa- 
monde to  her  cousin.  "If  I  should  be  left  alone 
with  him  I  would  die  of  fright." 


VI 


THE  ride  home  had  been  delightful,  enlightened 
almost  continuously  by  a  monologue  on  the  part  of 
Professor  Syle  wherein  he  informed  the  young 
ladies  that  Fifth  Avenue,  which  had  been  their 
highway,  was  a  bulwark  of  entrenched  plutocracy. 
Emily  had  always  thought  New  York's  show  street 
quite  beautiful,  but  the  advanced  thinker  had  done 
his  best  to  spoil  it  for  her  until  he  explained  in  his 
cocksure  way  that,  under  soviet  management,  the 
standard  would  be  advanced  and  Fifth  Avenue 
would  profit  by  the  improvement. 

"What  do  you  think  a  soviet  government  would 
do  with  Broadway?"  had  been  Emily's  prize  ques- 
tion, to  which  Syle  had  replied: 

'The  theaters  will  be  put  under  the  Board  of 
Control." 

A  picture  of  the  Midnight  Follies  under  a  Board 
of  Control  was  troubling  Emily's  mind  when  their 
automobile  stopped  at  the  Valiants'  apartment 
house.  They  had  no  sooner  reached  the  Flemish 
hall  and  relieved  the  great  radical  of  his  hat  and 
coat  than  Agnes,  called  away  from  her  tea  things, 
came  back  with  the  message  that  Mrs.  Shallope 
was  at  the  telephone  wishing  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Val- 
iant. The  summons  hinted  so  many  disagreeable 
things  to  Emily  that  she  proved  a  very  poor  com- 

74 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  75 

panion  for  Rosamonde's  guest  who,  however,  made 
himself  quite  at  home  and  set  himself  to  the  task 
of  criticizing  the  interior  decorations. 

"A  characteristic  bourgeois  interior,"  he  lectured, 
after  having  fingered  the  picture  frames,  mold- 
ings and  upholsteries.  "The  place  lacks  restful- 
ness." 

"You're  right  there,"  agreed  Emily,  feeling  that 
she  would  like  to  jump  out  of  a  window. 

"Here  we  find  all  the  restlessness  of  an  idle  and 
useless  class,  a  parasite  class.  The  bourgeoisie  de- 
light in  futile  imitations  of  a  medieval  aristocracy 
which  they  threaten  to  reconstruct.  These  hang- 
ings, for  instance" — Syle  rubbed  his  slender,  poor- 
ly manicured  fingers  appraisingly  over  a  velour 
surface — "what  do  you  think  they  cost?" 

"Too  much,  I  dare  say,"  replied  Emily.  "But 
for  heaven's  sake  don't  put  any  more  interior- 
decoration  ideas  into  Rosa's  head.  She's  nearly 
ruined  Merlin  already." 

"Ah,  this  Merlin  is  her  husband?" 

"Temporarily  at  least." 

"A  reactionary  I  imagine." 

"It  wouldn't  take  any  Edgar  Allan  Poe  to  im- 
agine that." 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

"Am  I?" 

Walter  Scott  Syle,  shuffling  in  his  hobgoblin 
shoes,  turned  his  back  on  Emily  and  continued  his 
circuit  round  the  room.  Presently  Rosamonde 
came  in.  Her  face  was  a  study. 


76  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"What  did  she  want  ?"  asked  Emily,  quite  out  of 
breath. 

"She's  coming  to  dinner." 

"To-night?"     Emily's  head  began  to  whirl. 

"She  invited  herself — she  wouldn't  take  no  for 
an  answer.  I  told  her  my  cook  was  sick;  she  said 
she  was  on  a  diet  and  didn't  care." 

"What  in  the  world  is  possessing  her?" 

"She  says  she's  going  to  stay  overnight  at  the 
Merlinbilt  so  that  she  can  be  in  town  for  the 
Drouthsky  musicale  right  after  lunch." 

"Well,"  sighed  Emily,  "I'll  have  to  get  Oliver 
and  tell  him  not  to  come." 

Professor  Syle  had  been  deaf  to  this  crisis  ap- 
parently, for  he  turned  from  the  wall  with  this 
helpful  criticism: 

"Your  apartment  is  much  too  gaudy.  Look  at 
that  fireplace." 

"It's  only  an  imitation,"  poor  Rosamonde  apolo- 
gized. 

At  that  instant  Agnes  rolled  in  the  tea  wagon, 
and  Emily  escaped  to  Rosamonde's  boudoir  where 
she  found  a  hand-painted  telephone  and  made  haste 
to  call  up  Green  &  Plevort,  Mules.  Mr.  Browning, 
they  told  her,  was  gone  for  the  afternoon.  Where 
was  he  stopping?  They  didn't  know,  lady;  but 
they  keenly  guessed  that  it  must  be  at  some  hotel. 
Would  they  ask  Mr.  Browning  to  call  up  Mrs.  Val- 
iant's apartment  if  he  should  come  in?  Sure,  lady, 
they  would  be  glad  to,  but  they  guessed  he  was 
gone  for  the  day. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  77 

Emily  pawed  the  telephone  book  and  chose  at 
random  five  hotels  out  of  New  York's  fifteen  hun- 
dred. Of  course  there  was  no  Oliver  Browning — 
no  Emily  Ray's  Oliver  Browning — stopping  at  any 
of  them.  At  last  she  gave  it  up  and  went  in  to 
tea.  She  found  Syle  pawing  over  a  portfolio  of 
etchings,  so  in  this  brief  opportunity  she  informed 
her  cousin  that  she  must  go. 

"Emily,  please!"  Rosamonde's  manner  was 
tragic.  "You  can't  go  and  leave  me  with  him!  It 
looks  as  though  he  were  going  to  stay  for  hours — 
and  Merlin  comes  home  at  six-fifteen  sharp  every 
night." 

"Well,  my  staying  won't  keep  Merlin  from  com- 
ing home,"  Emily  argued  with  logic  on  her  side. 

"No,  but  you  can  help  me  get  rid  of  this  pro- 
fessor before  Merlin  catches  him  here." 

At  this  point  Walter  Scott  Syle  emerged  from 
his  trance  to  request  another  cup  of  tea,  double 
strength  this  time. 

"Rather  mediocre  second  impressions,"  he  pro- 
nounced the  etchings,  closing  the  portfolio  with  a 
snap  and  casting  it  aside. 

"They  aren't  imitations,  anyhow,"  suggested 
Emily,  who  was  fast  losing  patience  with  the  situa- 
tion. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  there  is  no  such  a  thing 
as  an  imitation." 

"No?" 

"That  which  is  beautiful  to-day  will  be  precious 
in  the  next  generation." 


78  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

'Isn't  that  lovely!"  said  Emily,  but  without  emo- 
tion. 

Professor  Syle  turned  upon  her  his  peculiar  red- 
dish eyes  and  regarded  her  fixedly  for  a  moment. 

"What  a  splendid  convert  you  would  make!"  he 
murmured,  and  reached  for  his  cup  of  double- 
strength  tea.  He  gulped  thirstily,  then  as  though 
enjoying  the  stimulation  resumed: 

"Tea!  In  my  estimation  it  is  the  chosen  drink 
of  the  intellectual.  Russia  owes  much  of  her  pres- 
ent enlightenment  to  her  national  habit  of  tea 
drinking " 

"Isn't  there  something  about  vodka,  too?"  asked 
Emily,  by  way  of  being  agreeable. 

"Yes,  yes."  He  passed  over  his  cup.  "I'll  have 
a  little  rum  in  mine,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Again  he  gulped ;  but  this  time  the  drink  seemed 
to  affect  him  disagreeably,  for  he  paused,  closed 
his  eyes  and  began  stroking  his  forehead.  Rosa- 
monde  and  Emily  exchanged  nervous  glances. 

"Aren't  you  well,  Professor  Syle?"  asked  Rosa- 
monde  in  an  awed  tone. 

"Call  me  Comrade  Walter,"  he  said,  suddenly 
awakening. 

"Comrade  Walter." 

"The  spell  has  passed.  I  am,  as  you  have  prob- 
ably guessed,  a  tremendous  worker,  Comrade  Rosa- 
monde."  She  brightened.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  accepted  her  whole  for  his  inner  circle.  "I 
seldom  sleep,  and  as  a  result  the  blood  sometimes 
leaves  my  brain.  It  is  annoying." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  79 

"Don't  you  see  a  doctor  or  take  something  for 
it?" 

"Tea,"  he  pronounced.  She  refilled  his  cup 
rapidly.  "Most  of  my  editorials  are  written  under 
the  influence  of  tea.  And  sometimes,  after  a  long 
period  of  mental  strain,  I  resort  to  more  drastic 


measures." 


"Some  sort  of  drug?"  suggested  Emily. 

"Oh,  no!"     The  thought  seemed  to  annoy  him. 

"Sometimes  I  get  awfully  dull  at  dinner  parties," 
she  confessed,  feeling  more  and  more  at  home  with 
this  superior  soul.  "I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what 
you  do." 

"I  soak  my  feet,"  he  said  quite  distinctly,  "in 
ice-cold  water." 

"Oh!" 

Emily  bit  her  lip,  enjoying  a  picture  of  Rosa- 
monde's  guest  suddenly  quitting  the  tea  party  to 
wade  and  paddle  under  a  cold  tap.  And  in  the 
spare  room,  she  remembered,  Eustace,  the  alligator, 
was  now  occupying  the  tub. 

"We  could  bring  you  some  in  a  bucket,"  was 
Miss  Ray's  thoughtful  suggestion,  but  it  struck  no 
spark  from  Professor  Syle,  who,  whatever  his 
faults,  was  never  a  humorist. 

"Thank  you,  no."  It  was  as  though  he  were  re- 
fusing another  cup  of  tea.  He  went  right  on  with 
his  lecture,  for  with  Professor  Syle  to  lecture  was 
to  breathe. 

"The  beginner  in  progressive  socialism  should 
keep  in  mind  the  two  courses,  radical  moderatism 


80  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

and  moderate  radicalism.    Wealth  should  revert,  of 
course,  to  an  impartial  public  ownership." 

"Would  that  mean,"  asked  Rosamonde,  appar- 
ently yielding  to  the  music  of  his  voice,  "that  all 
the  high  buildings  and  apartment  houses  would  be 
torn  down  or  burned  up?" 

"What  if  they  were?"  asked  the  great  thinker. 
"That  would  be  of  small  consequence  to  the  world 
movement." 

"It  wouldn't  be  of  small  consequence  to  the  peo- 
ple living  in  the  apartments  and  office  buildings," 
suggested  Emily. 

"Of  course,  Miss  Ray,"  he  informed  her  kindly, 
"it  would  be  hard  for  one  of  your  class  to  under- 
stand the  attitude  of  the  worker." 

A  memory  of  weary  hours  on  tired  feet  behind 
a  counter  caused  Miss  Ray  to  wince  a  little  before 
replying: 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't." 

"But  by  what  means  shall  ownership  revert?" 
He  took  up  his  theme.  "By  arbitrated  communism 
or  by  rationalistic  violence?" 

"The  first  you  said — I  think  that  would  be  best." 
Rosamonde  hated  any  violence  coupled  with  such 
long  words. 

"You  have,  I  see,  an  intuitive  logic.  Now  as  I 
see  it  the  wealthy  classes — the  so-called  upper 
classes — of  America  will  do  well  to  join  hands  with 
the  workmen  and  cooperate  in  some  scientific  plan 
whereby  all  accumulated  wealth  may  be  given  over 
to  the  state." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  81 

"What  state?"  asked  Emily.  "I  hope  it  wouldn't 
be  Illinois.  I  dislike  several  people  from  Illinois." 

"The  state,"  was  Mr.  Syle's  rather  unsatisfactory 
reply. 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  lots  of  people  like  their 
money."  This  was  Rosamonde's  objection. 
"There's  Merlin,  for  instance.  I  suppose  he'd  put 
up  a  terrific  fight  if  anybody  wanted  him  to  send 
his  money  to  a  state." 

"I  imagine  he  might,"  agreed  the  prophet,  look- 
ing somewhat  bored  as  he  always  did  when  any- 
body else  was  talking. 

"And  suppose  all  the  rich  people  felt  like  Mer- 
lin?" 

"Oh,  that  would  be  a  matter  for  the  comrades 
who  favor  rationalistic  violence.  Whether  prop- 
erty is  turned  over  bloodlessly  or  seized  by  a  gen- 
eral armed  uprising  of  the  proletariat  is  merely  an 
academic  question." 

He  helped  himself  to  another  tea  cake  and 
munched  hungrily  ere  resuming: 

"As  for  myself,  occupying  the  extreme  left  as  I 
do,  I  am  a  little  partial  to  rationalistic  violence. 
With  the  aid  of  the  machine  gun  and  the  public 
executioner  darkest  America  would  soon  be  equal 
to  the  civilization  and  progress  of  modern  Rus- 


sia." 


"Merlin  would  agree  with  you,  I'm  sure," 
said  Rosamonde  with  renewed  enthusiasm.  "He's 
often  said  that  the  only  way  to  cure  those  con- 


82  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

scientious  objectors  would  be  to  shoot  'em  against 
a  stone  wall." 

"Ah,  so?"  Professor  Syle  raised  his  eyebrows. 
"Of  course  he  would  say  so." 

"Well,  that's  violence,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is.  It  is  the  violence  of  Nero  toward  the 
Christian  martyrs.  You  could  not  expect  anything 
better  in  a  country  where  hundreds  of  brave  young 
men,  too  strong  in  character  to  shoulder  a  gun  in 
a  trumped-up  fight  against  the  free  people  of  Ger- 
many, have  been  thrown  into  prison  to  be  whipped 
and  abused  by  a  technic  of  cruelty  more  refined 
than  was  ever  in  use  in  the  torture  chambers  of 
the  old  Kremlin." 

This  was  quite  a  poser  for  Rosamonde.  Emily 
had  never  thought  of  it  that  way  either;  had,  in 
fact,  been  inclined  to  side  with  Merlin's  views  to 
the  effect  that  a  man  who  wouldn't  fight  for  his 
country  was  too  lowly  for  a  clean  hangman's  noose. 
It  was  more  than  thrilling  to  hear  a  truly  emanci- 
pated digest  of  the  subject  which  was  treated  at 
such  length  that,  ere  its  close,  Rosamonde  began 
looking  nervously  toward  the  front  door,  then  to- 
ward Emily  with  numerous  supplicating  winks  of 
the  eye.  Emily  consulted  her  bracelet  watch.  Hor- 
rors! It  was  ten  minutes  after  six.  Merlin  would 
be  coming  home  at  any  minute,  and  as  she  had  said, 
the  shock  would  be  felt  for  miles  round. 

Merlin  Valiant's  poor  foolish  wife  had  now 
snuggled  close  to  her  cousin  on  the  window  seat 
and  was  pinching  her  arm  in  a  dot-and-dash  sys- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  83 

tern  which  painfully  spelled  the  message:  "Get  him 
out!  Get  him  out!" 

"Professor  Syle,"  said  Emily,  "have  you  seen  the 
Red  Army  war  exhibit  at  BlickendorfFs  Gallery?5* 

"I  am  not  aware  of  any  such  exhibit,"  he  de- 
clared, irritated  at  the  interruption  of  his  finest 
paragraph. 

"Well,  it's  splendid.  Enlarged  photographs 
showing  the  czar  being  murdered  and  dynamited 
explosions  on  the  Neva  and  everything.  It's  right 
round  the  corner  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  I'm  crazy 
to  go.  Won't  you  come  with  me  and  explain  the 
hard  words?" 

"It  is  probably  an  imposture,"  replied  Syle,  quite 
unimpressed. 

"Well,  then,  think  of  what  fun  it  will  be  to  ex- 
pose it." 

She  had  arisen  and  was  actually  tugging  him 
by  the  arm. 

"I  am  afraid  not  this  evening,"  he  said.  She 
could  have  brained  him  with  a  chair  when  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  went  industriously  on: 
"Then  in  the  matter  of  espionage.  By  what  right, 
under  the  so-called  American  constitution,  does  the 
Department  of  Justice  continue  to  put  spies  upon 
our  activities?" 

"I — I  really  don't  know,"  cut  in  Rosamonde, 
now  pale  to  the  lips.  "But  I'm  sorry,  Professor 
Syle — really,  I'm  afraid  you  must  go." 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  He  jerked  to  his  feet 
with  the  activity  of  a  jumping  jack  and  stood  shuf- 


84.  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

fling  on  his  peculiar  shapeless  shoes.  "This  chat 
has  been  so  pleasant — and  if  you  are  really  in  earn- 
est you  can  be  of  great  service  to  our  cause/' 

"Oh,  can  I?"  Emily  could  see  how  the  ecstasy 
of  that  thought  caused  her  cousin  for  a  moment 
to  forget  the  impending  danger. 

"Would  you  care  to  help,  to  throw  yourself  body 
and  soul  into  the  movement?" 

"Anything  I  can  do "  She  was  shoving  him 

toward  the  door  with  her  every  reckless  promise. 
"I'm  willing  to  help  in  any  way  you  suggest." 

Syle  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks. 

"Have  you  a  spare  bedroom  in  this  apartment?" 

Rosamonde  was  stricken  speechless. 

"A — what?"    Emily  took  up  the  theme. 

"Spare  bedroom." 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  inquired  the  hopeless  Miss 
Ray. 

"But,  Professor  Syle "  Rosamonde  closed 

her  eyes  as  though  in  silent  prayer.  Any  minute 
that  terrible  thing  at  the  front  door  might  announce 
Merlin. 

"This  is  unusual,  I  know,"  persisted  Syle,  quite 
the  calmest  person  present.  "But  in  furthering  the 
revolution  sacrifices  must  be  made  in  great  emer- 
gencies. To  be  brief,  I'm  in  rather  a  tight  corner 
and  I  should  like  to  be  out  of  the  way  until  to- 
morrow." 

Pictures  of  secret-service  agents  and  the  De- 
partment of  Justice  and  of  cruel  imprisonments 
swam  before  the  eyes  of  two  frightened  women. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  85 

1 

The  doorbell  rang. 

"That's  Merlin!"  whispered  Rosamonde,  clasp- 
ing her  hands.  "He  hasn't  got  his  keys." 

"You  foolish  child!"  cried  Emily,  then  taking 
the  persistent  refugee  roughly  by  the  sleeve  she  led 
him  to  the  second-best  guest  room  and  shoved  him 
roughly  inside  the  door. 

"Now  stay  there !"  she  almost  shouted,  "and  for 
heaven's  sake  don't  come  out  till  you're  asked." 
Whereupon  she  banged  the  door. 

"The  lights  are  out  of  order  in  there  and  Eus- 
tace  "  Rosamonde  ended  it  in  an  incoherent 

moan. 

"Who  cares!"  snapped  Emily,  mad  with  the 
knowledge  that  now  she  must  stick  by  her  cousin 
and  face  Aunt  Carmen's  wrath. 

The  doorbell  rang  again,  two  impatient  rings. 


VII 


A  BAD  moment  for  an  experimenter  in  social 
revolution.  Rosamonde  being  now  completely 
paralyzed,  Emily  got  the  professor's  hat  and  coat 
into  an  Italian  chest  and  had  whisked  the  tea  things 
into  a  pantry  when  the  bell  rang  again,  thrice  this 
time. 

The  door  was  opened  at  last  to  reveal  the  Tur- 
ribul  Tempered  Mr.  Valiant  in  one  of  his  moods 
of  solemn  resignation.  He  delivered  his  kiss  to  the 
very  center  of  Rosamonde' s  forehead  ere  handing 
his  hat  and  coat  to  the  waiting  Agnes.  Mr.  Val- 
iant had  a  way  of  establishing  the  fact  that  he  was 
master  the  very  moment  he  stepped  into  the  house. 

"Certainly  kept  me  waiting  long  enough,"  he 
grumbled;  then:  "What's  the  matter,  Rosa?  You 
look  as  though  there  might  be  a  bomb  under  the 
table." 

"It's  the  dinner,"  she  extemporized.  "I've  asked 
Oliver  to  meet  Emily — and  now  Aunt  Carmen  has 
wished  herself  on  the  party  at  the  last  moment." 

"That  ought  to  be  a  joyous  occasion,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

"But  think  of  it!  Aunt  Carmen  won't  let  Oliver 
even  call  at  her  house.  There'll  be  a  dreadful 


scene." 


"Well,  why  don't  you  tell  him  not  to  come?" 
86 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  87 

"We  don't  know  where  he  lives,"  wailed  Emily, 
having  worked  herself  up  to  a  pitch  of  desperation 
equal  to  Rosamonde's.  Already  she  was  consider- 
ing desperate  measures  whereby  to  remove  the  hid- 
den Bolshevik. 

"Oh,  come  on!"  urged  Merlin,  resorting  to  his 
cure-all;  "let's  shake  up  a  cocktail  and  quit  worry- 
ing." 

Emily  understood  at  that  moment  how  people 
become  slaves  to  drink.  After  a  second  glass  had 
restored  Merlin  to  something  of  his  normal  genial- 
ity he  took  up  the  subject  of  liberalism  from  his 
own  angle. 

"I  believe  in  shooting  'em  all  against  a  high 
wall,"  he  declared.  "This  idiotic  League  of  Na- 
tions business  is  a  lot  of  Democratic  nonsense  that's 
driving  the  world  crazy.  That's  what  I  mean  about 
allowing  sheets  like  the  Raw  Deal  kicking  round 
the  house.  I'd  rather  have  a  ton  of  loose  dynamite 
under  the  bed.  Emmy,  have  you  been  fooling  with 
this  parlor  Bolshevism?" 

"What  makes  you  look  at  me  that  way?"  asked 
Emily,  who  was  never  quite  afraid  of  Merlin. 

"Well,  it  occurred  to  me  that,  knocking  round 
the  world,  you  might  have  been  exposed  to  the 
disease."  He  fumbled  with  his  wallet  and  brought 
out  a  shred  of  newspaper.  "Puggy,  I  want  you 
to  read  that.  It  will  do  you  good.  There  ought 
to  be  more  letters  like  that  in  the  papers." 

Dutifully  Rosamonde  glanced  over  the  item,  then 
handed  it  back  to  Merlin. 


88  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"It's  perfectly  splendid,"  she  agreed  faintly. 

"And  you,  too,  Emmy.     It'll  do  you  good/' 

Emily  took  the  clipping  and  read  the  headline, 
"Amateur  Messiahs,"  then  the  first  paragraph: 

"Of  course  when  the  very  rich  are  tired  of  all 
the  new  dances  and  the  opera  season  has  drawn  to 
a  close  it  is  necessary  to  turn  to  a  new,  expensive 
and  picturesque  vice.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  letter  she  had  written  for  Aunt  Car- 
men, signed  "Pro  Bono  Publico"  and  sent  to  the 
Times. 

"It's  really  very  nice,"  she  proclaimed  in  a  voice 
even  fainter  than  Rosamonde's  had  been.  From 
the  direction  of  the  second-best  spare  room  she 
thought  she  heard  a  sound  like  the  gnawing  of 
a  rat. 

"Is  that  all  you  can  say  for  it!"  blurted  Merlin. 
"What's  the  use  of  giving  women  the  vote  if  they 
never  have  any  opinions  on  anything?  Come  on, 
Puggy,  it's  time  to  dress." 

Ever  and  anon  during  that  miserable  hour  Emily 
would  slip  out  of  her  bedroom  and  peer  across  the 
living  room  toward  the  door  which  imprisoned 
Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle.  Once  in  her  guilty 
inspection  she  bumped  into  another  kimonoed  form, 
which  proved  to  be  Rosamonde,  who  was  also 
peering. 

"Why  don't  you  sneak  in  to  him  and  urge  him 
to  go  by  the  back  way — the  servants'  elevator " 

"Suppose  he  won't  go  or  Merlin  finds  him?" 
whispered  Emily. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  89 

"Puggy!"  Merlin's  voice  commanded  from 
afar. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  implored  the  distracted 
thing. 

"Nothing,  as  usual,"  said  Emily,  and  went  back 
to  her  dressing. 

While  she  was  doing  her  hair  she  considered 
Syle's  case  so  earnestly  as  all  but  to  forget  her 
predicament  with  Oliver  and  Aunt  Carmen.  Syle 
was  hiding  away  from  the  police.  There  was  no 
doubt  on  that  score.  She  had  read  tales  of  Rus- 
sian revolutionists,  under  similar  circumstances, 
hiding  for  days — or  was  it  weeks — in  foodless 
and  drinkless  packing  cases.  Professor  Syle 
wouldn't  starve.  He  had  eaten  ravenously  of  tea 
cakes  during  the  trying  afternoon;  intellectual  peo- 
ple didn't  require  much  nourishment,  she  had 
heard.  Of  course  it  would  be  a  shame  to  keep  him 
in  the  dark,  if  the  lights  were  out  of  order  as 
Rosamonde  had  said;  but  he  would  probably  im- 
prove his  time  by  composing  another  speech. 

Horrors!  What  if  he  should  practice  his  speech 
out  loud?  Emily  all  but  swallowed  a  hairpin;  then 
she  drew  her  kimono  about  her  and  went  forth 
fired  with  a  desperate  resolve. 

Professor  Syle's  door  was  unlocked  and  she 
did  not  announce  herself  for  fear  of  the  noise.  In 
the  half  light  of  the  room  she  saw  him  stretched 
out  on  the  bed,  comfortably  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Oh,  hello!"  he  cried  in  a  loud,  cheerful  tone, 
rising  to  a  sitting  posture. 


90  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Emily  closed  the  door  softly. 

"Shut  up!"  she  hissed. 

"How  do  you  mean — shut  up?"  he  persisted, 
making  no  effort  to  lower  his  voice. 

"You've  got  to  go,"  whispered  Emily,  laying 
rough  hands  on  his  sleeve.  "Mrs.  Valiant's  hus- 
band doesn't  know  you're  here.  There's  a  chance 
to  get  out  through  the  kitchen." 

"In  the  morning,"  he  announced  with  unusual 
brevity. 

"Now." 

"By  no  means.  I  am  here  for  the  night,  quite 

comfortable,  thank  you "  His  voice  seemed  to 

rise  to  a  platform  pitch.  Emily  stood  petrified. 

"Then  for  heaven's  sake  be  quiet." 

And  she  slipped  back  into  the  living  room,  weak 
with  fear  that  Merlin  would  be  watching  her. 

In  one  particular  the  dinner  was  less  distressing 
than  it  might  have  been.  At  the  sight  of  Oliver 
Browning  that  worldly  old  devil,  Aunt  Carmen, 
never  turned  a  hair  of  her  well-penciled  eyebrows. 
To  make  a  sixth,  Rosamonde  had  asked  in  a  Cap- 
tain Pivvokk,  emissary  from  some  small  but  self- 
determining  European  nation,  and  as  the  captain 
was  the  first  to  arrive  and  Aunt  Carmen  second  the 
two  got  on  famously  together,  practicing  their 
French  to  mutual  disadvantage.  He  was  dressed 
handsomely  in  his  self-determining  uniform,  and 
he  had  a  way  of  twisting  his  mustache  and  leering 
under  his  heavy  lids  that  was  theatrically  effective. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  91 

^ ! 

"I  thought  you  had  deserted  our  country,"  Ma- 
dam Shallope  was  saying. 

"For  Washington,  madam,"  said  the  foreigner, 
kissing  her  hand. 

"And  that  is  foreign,  you  think?" 

"Everything  in  this  droll  country  is  foreign." 

The  doorbell  rang.  In  a  very  frenzy  of  cor- 
diality Emily  flew  to  Merlin  with  a  comic  story, 
which  as  it  progressed  got  further  and  further  from 
the  point. 

Rosamonde,  meanwhile,  had  braced  herself  for 
shock  Number  One.  Oliver  Browning,  after  a 
proper  interval,  walked  into  the  room.  He  looked 
almost  handsome  in  his  evening  clothes,  and  when 
his  round  eyes  lit  on  Aunt  Carmen  never  a  muscle 
changed  on  his  cherubic  countenance.  So  much 
for  Oliver's  nerve. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Shallope."  Thus  he  ad- 
dressed her  quite  cordially,  was  rewarded  by  a  brief 
handshake  and  passed  easily  among  the  other 
guests.  It  was  only  when  he  had  taken  his  place 
between  Rosamonde  and  Emily  that  he  turned  to 
his  inamorata  and  whispered  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  mouth : 

"What  in " 

"Aren't  the  pussy  willows  coming  out  beauti- 
fully in  the  park!"  exclaimed  Emily,  who  was  ap- 
parently enjoying  the  horrid  situation.  "At  this 
time  of  year  I  often  think  it's  prettier  in  town  than 
in  the  country." 

"Tastes   differ,"    said   Merlin,   coming  into  the 


92  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

^M**""""MM™**''™^^^^^^— ^^^^^^**""|^™'^^^^^^^^^™^^"''*^^M''^^™'''^^^^^*^^ 

conversation.  "Everything  in  New  York's  spoiled 
by  those  Bolsheviki.  Look  at  Fifth  Avenue.  From 
twelve  to  one  the  whole  street  between  the  Library 
and  Madison  Square  looks  like  a  ragtag  corner  of 
the  ghetto." 

He  was  off  again  on  his  favorite  topic.  With 
fear  in  her  heart  Emily  went  over  and  joined  Aunt 
Carmen,  who,  hardened  old  worldling  that  she  was, 
showed  not  the  slightest  trace  of  annoyance  at  this 
impious  breach  of  her  commandments.  She  chatted 
easily  along  with  the  foreign  officer,  leaping  nim- 
bly from  French  to  English.  Only  once  did  Emily 
catch  her  fierce  black  eyes  taking  in  Oliver  with  a 
look  of  disapproval  and  astonishment. 

The  dinner,  when  once  they  got  settled  down  to 
it,  resolved  itself  into  one  of  those  distressing, 
jowering  affairs  which  dinners  have  too  often  be- 
come in  our  international  Silly  Season  after  the 
war.  With  the  exception  of  Emily  everybody  was 
fairly  agreed  that  the  League  of  Nations  was 
merely  a  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Lloyd 
George  and  the  Democratic  party  to  keep  Repub- 
licans out  of  office.  With  the  corner  of  her  mind 
that  was  not  engaged  by  the  Bolshevik  and  the 
alligator  Emily  noticed  that  her  poor  dear  cousin 
had  turned  the  color  of  the  tablecloth  in  such 
surfaces  of  her  face  as  were  not  artificially  in- 
carnadined. 

"Of  course  with  that  gang  running  the  war/' 
declared  Merlin,  reddening — he  always  referred  to 
the  administration  as  that  gang — "how  can  you  ex- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  93 

pect  anything  to  turn  out  right  ?  With  an  adminis- 
trator that  says  one  thing  one  week  and  then  turns 
round  and  denies  it  the  next;  with  a  President  who 
wants  to  be  king " 

"Isn't  that  exactly  what  the  New  York  newspa- 
pers were  saying  about  Roosevelt  back  in  1910?" 
asked  Emily  in  a  strained  sort  of  voice. 

"Emily!"  This  was  Aunt  Carmen's  first  rebuke 
of  the  evening. 

"What  do  you  know  about  1910?  You  were  still 
in  short  dresses,"  demanded  Merlin,  turning  upon 
the  culprit,  his  neck  now  redder  than  the  slice  of 
ruddy  duck  on  his  plate. 

"I've  been  reading  old  files  in  the  library." 

"The  child  is  crazy  about  old  newspapers,"  de- 
clared Aunt  Carmen  to  the  table. 

"And  since  you  have  gone  in  for  public  opin- 
ions," said  Merlin,  with  the  dreadful  calm  of  an 
assassin,  "what  is  your  final  opinion  on  the  League 
of  Nations?" 

"I'm  not  a  great  statesman  or  a  great  lawyer — 
and  anything  so  big  would  require  both  to  interpret 
it.  But  I  do  think  it's  the  only  world-peace  idea 
that  has  ever  been  devised;  and  I'm  sure  it's  noth- 
ing less  than  a  scandal  the  way  American  politi- 
cians have  been  trying  to  tear  it  to  pieces.  It  isn't 
because  they  dislike  the  League,  but  because  they 
would  rather  destroy  the  world's  peace  forever  than 
see  the  President  have  his  way." 

"It    is    amusing,"    remarked    Captain    Pivvokk, 


94,  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

rolling  his  languid  eyes,  "how  you  Americans  quar- 
rel among  yourselves." 

"Emily,'*  said  Merlin,  empurpling,  "are  you  bit- 
ten with  that  Bolshevik  bug,  too?" 

"I  don't  think  there's  anything  particularly  Bol- 
shevik about  not  wanting  the  world  to  be  in  a  per- 
manent state  of  war  for  the  next  million  years," 
she  retorted  hotly. 

"There  are  a  great  many  worse  things  than  war," 
said  Oliver.  Emily  didn't  like  that  in  him,  because 
it  left  her  fighting,  one  against  five. 

"Yes,"  she  drawled,  "there's  being  kicked  by  a 
mule." 

She  was  sorry  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of 
her  mouth;  but  words,  like  smoke,  once  exhaled 
cannot  be  inhaled  again.  It  was  now  Oliver's  turn 
to  flush. 

"The  social  unrest  is  worldwide,"  was  Captain 
Pivvokk's  original  discovery. 

"If  the   President   would  put  more  Bolsheviks 

into  jail  and  fewer  into  office -"  Merlin  stormed 

bitterly. 

Captain  Pivvokk  shrugged  his  high  shoulders 
and  smilingly  intimated  that  America  would  be- 
come civilized  in  time.  Oliver  agreed  that  we  were 
quite  young  as  yet.  Merlin  wanted  to  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  Brest. 

But  the  distraught  mind  of  the  young  hostess 
was  now  so  apparent  that  Emily  forgot  her  argu- 
ments to  listen;  and  listening  brought  terror  to  her 
heart.  The  sound  came  vaguely  at  first  over  the 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  95 

growing  riot  of  conversation.  But  in  the  short 
pause  she  could  hear  it  distinctly.  Running  wa- 
ter! She  tried  to  hypnotize  herself  into  the  belief 
that  it  came  from  the  faucets  in  the  kitchen.  But 
the  direction  was  unmistakable.  Water  was  being 
run  into  the  spare-room  bathtub.  The  sound  con- 
jured up  a  Dantesque  picture;  half  darkness  in  the 
spare  room,  Professor  Syle,  weary  with  continual 
thought,  deciding  to  soak  his  feet  in  ice-cold  water! 

She  opened  her  mouth  once  and  barely  restrained 
herself  from  crying  aloud:  "Please  don't!" 

"Rosamonde,"  she  heard  Merlin  asking  through 
the  haze,  "do  you  know  where  I  put  that  clipping 
from  the  Times — the  one  I  was  reading?" 

"Oh!"  Rosamonde  came  out  of  a  horrid  coma. 
"I  left  it  on  the  window  seat.  I'll— I'll  get  it." 
Emily  saw  that  she  was  sparring  for  a  chance  to 
glide  into  the  living  room,  open  Professor  Syle's 
prison  door  and  implore  him  to  be  still. 

"No,  no !"  commanded  Merlin.  "Agnes  will  find 
it.  Agnes,  get  that  little  newspaper  clipping  I  left 
on  the  window  seat.  And  now,  young  lady" — 
turning  to  Emily — "I'll  show  you  what  sane  peo- 
ple— and  there  are  a  few  left  in  the  country — • 
really  think  about  Bolshevism." 

Agnes  was  gone  at  least  a  year.  The  aqueous 
murmur  from  the  spare  room  came  to  Emily's  ears 
like  echoes  from  Niagara. 

When  Agnes  returned  with  the  clipping  Merlin 
snatched  it  eagerly  from  her  fingers. 

Emily  saw  wonderful  auroral  lights  swimming 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


round  and  round  among  the  cornices.  Distantly 
she  could  hear  the  Turribul  Tempered  Mr.  Valiant 
explaining  that  Pro  Bono  Publico  meant  for  the 
public  good;  that  the  idea  of  suppressing  inflam- 
matory speech  was  that  very  thing,  Pro  Bono  Pub- 
lico. She  got  scraps  of  her  own  letter  to  the  Times, 
protests  on  the  subject  of  the  tired  rich  turning  to 
a  new,  expensive  and  picturesque  vice,  parlor  Bol- 
shevism, caustic  comments  on  the  spectacle  of  Pro- 
fessor Walter  Scott  Syle,  conscientious  objector, 
enemy  of  government,  capering  before  aristocratic 
audiences,  mostly  feminine,  in  our  fashionable 
hotels. 

"It's  a  disease!"  declared  Merlin,  hurling  the 
paper  to  the  floor,  "a  pestiferous  infection.  If  you 
could  keep  it  in  the  nasty  slums  where  disease  be- 
longs, that  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But  it  is  moving 
into  Fifth  Avenue,  like  the  sweat  shops." 

"Your  country  lacks  stability,"  Captain  Pivvokk 
reminded  the  company. 

"That's  what's  the  matter  with  it,"  agreed 
Oliver. 

Emily  made  as  though  to  speak,  but  an  enven- 
omed glance  from  Aunt  Carmen  seemed  to  lack 
the  desired  effect. 

"I've  been  a  working  girl  myself,"  she  an- 
nounced quietly  as  her  jarring  nerves  would  per- 
mit. "And  it  didn't  make  a  Bolshevist  out  of  me 
or  any  sort  of  ist.  It  taught  me  pretty  plainly  that 
the  sort  of  people  who  go  in  for  overthrowing  the 
government  are  either  too  lazy  to  work  or " 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  97 

"Emily!'*  said  Aunt  Carmen  sharply.  "You're 
losing  a  hairpin — there,  on  that  side." 

In  the  little  moment  of  silence  which  fell  Emily 
was  relieved  to  notice  that  water  had  ceased  to  run 
in  the  spare  room.  Rosamonde  was  looking  quite 
ill. 

"These  Bolsheviks,"  went  on  Merlin,  not  to  be 
diverted  from  his  favorite  abomination,  "are  worm- 
ing their  way  into  the  best  houses  in  the  land.  Who 
is  safe  any  more?  How  do  you  know  what's  be- 
ing planned  against  you — or  how  do  I  know  ?  How 
can  I  tell,  at  this  very  hour,  that  there  isn't  a  dyna- 
miter with  a  bomb,  hiding  under  the  bed  to " 

He  never  finished  with  his  dynamiter.  A  door 
was  heard  to  burst  open  somewhere  with  the  noise 
of  furies  escaping  from  hell.  And  such  a  shriek !  It 
came  three  times,  howl  upon  howl  in  tones  that 
were  undeniably  male.  Banquo's  ghost  never 
brought  a  dinner  party  more  promptly  to  its  feet. 
The  noise  came  from  the  living  room,  where  table 
seemed  to  be  warring  with  chair,  rug  with  chande- 
lier. 

Then  the  vision.  Across  the  wide  vista 
through  the  dining-room  doors  it  plunged  with  a 
stiff  ball-and-chain  movement.  It  was  the  figure 
of  Professor  Syle.  His  arms  were  waving,  he  was 
bare  to  the  knees  as  he  dragged  along  what  at  first 
appeared  to  be  a  long,  loose  roll  of  leather;  but  it 
was  plain  as  day  to  Emily:  Eustace,  the  alligator, 
adopting  the  tactics  of  an  angry  bulldog,  had  fas- 


98  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

f^^"^^^^^™'''"*^^^^™'^"'™^^^^^^"^^^^™"^™^"^^^™^*^"''''""^^^^^^^^^^^"^^^^ 

tened  his  teeth  into  Professor  Syle  just  below  the 
calf  of  the  right  leg. 

In  the  nightmare  scramble  that  followed — it  took 
less  than  the  space  of  ten  seconds — the  tormented 
Bolshevik  had  raised  a  gilt  chair  and  let  it  down 
heavily  on  the  alligator,  who  at  once  loosed  his  hold 
and  fell  writhing  beside  a  wrecked  table.  The  Val- 
iants' guests  stood  hypnotized,  viewing  the  gro- 
tesque tragedy  which  ended  in  the  professor's  turn- 
ing upon  the  assembled  company,  hissing  "Capital- 
ists!" through  his  clenched  teeth,  and  scuttling  at 
something  between  a  lope  and  a  limp  out  of  the 
front  door. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  said  Merlin,  quite  inade- 
quately. 

"Are  you  men  going  to  stand  here  and  let  him 
"  This  came  from  Aunt  Carmen,  and  was,  in- 
deed, the  first  practical  question  of  the  meeting. 

Fired  by  a  common  purpose  the  three  men  quit 
the  dining-room  and  evaporated  into  distance,  so 
rapid  was  their  flight  after  the  alligator-bitten  ap- 
parition. And  at  this  point  Rosamonde  did  a  most 
unfashionable  thing.  She  fainted. 

They  stretched  her  out  on  the  window  seat,  with 
Aunt  Carmen  holding  her  head  and  Emily  forcing 
some  of  Merlin's  best  cognac  between  her  teeth. 
The  stuff  choked  her  and  she  came  back  rapidly. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked  vaguely,  glaring  into 
space. 

"The  men  are  still  chasing  him,"  Aunt  Carmen 
assured  her.  "But,  my  dear,  do  you  keep  them 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  99 

round    the    house — crocodiles    and    queer   persons 
with  bare  feet?" 

"Uh-huh."  She  was  too  weak  for  further  con- 
cealment. "I  was  hiding  him.  He  must  have 
soaked  his  feet  in  the  bathtub.  Eustace  bit  him." 

"Did  you  hear  him  ?"  Aunt  Carmen's  old  cheeks 
glowed  with  her  inborn  love  of  excitement.  "He 
went  out  yelling  'Capitalists!'  just  like  a  Bolshe- 
vik." 

"That's  what  he  is,"  confessed  her  frivolous 
niece. 

"Rosamonde!" 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  alike  those  two 
women  looked  at  the  moment. 

"I  didn't  want  to  keep  him,  but  he  said  he  was 
hiding  from  the  police — and  I  knew  if  Merlin 
found  him  here — I  didn't  know  what  he  would  do 
— so  I  locked  him  up  with  Eustace.  I  might  have 
known  they  wouldn't  get  along  together." 

Rosamonde  now  burst  into  tears,  but  Emily  exe- 
cuted something  very  like  a  giggle. 

"How  wonderful !"  cried  Aunt  Carmen. 

"Wonderful?"  echoed  poor  Rosamonde. 

"To  have  people  hiding  about  the  place,  getting 
away  from  the  police.  What  had  he  done?" 

"I  don't  know.  Everything,  I  suppose.  You 
know" — here  Rosamonde  lowered  her  voice — "he's 
Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle." 

"My  word!"  Aunt  Carmen,  who  had  arisen  in 
her  excitement,  sat  down  again.  "The  socialist 


100  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

that  Ballymoore  woman  has  on  her  list?  Why  in 
the  world  didn't  you  introduce  him?" 

"Well,  you  see,  it  didn't  seem  to  be  just  the  right 
time,"  floundered  young  Mrs.  Valiant.  "And  then 
I  didn't  know  you  wanted  him." 

"I've  simply  got  to  have  him,"  pronounced  the 
tyrant  of  Plainview.  "I  don't  intend  that  Bally- 
moore woman " 

"I'll  get  him  for  you  if  I  can,"  Rosamonde  whis- 
pered rather  hysterically.  Male  voices  could  be 
heard  growing  louder  with  approach.  "And  now 
promise  me  you  won't  say  a  word  to  anybody." 

"Certainly,  my  dear/'  said  Aunt  Carmen  consol- 
ingly. 

"I  promise,"  Emily  assured  her,  but  not  without 
a  smile. 

"Oh,  my  Lord!    He's  waking  up!" 

Aunt  Carmen  had  leaped  into  a  chair  and  gath- 
ered her  skirts  round  her  scrawny  ankles.  Emily, 
instinctively  following  suit,  got  herself  upon  the 
window  seat. 

Eustace,  the  alligator,  had  recovered  from  his 
swoon  and  was  walking  slowly  across  the  rug. 


VIII 

THE  morning  after  that  gladiatorial  combat  be- 
tween the  alligator  and  the  Bolshevik,  Aunt  Car- 
men, the  surprising  old  thing,  called  upon  Rosa- 
monde  at  the  unheard-of  hour  of  eleven.  Rosa- 
monde,  lingering  in  bed  with  her  troubles,  couldn't 
believe  it;  no  more  could  Emily,  who  for  a  year 
had  been  witness  to  Mrs.  Shallope's  luxurious 
morning  habits.  Merlin  Valiant's  foolish  wife  had 
been  sipping  coffee  and  making  her  eyes  large  with 
excitement  as  she  told  the  fearful  way  Merlin  had 
behaved  and  how  Merlin  had  spent  all  night  pok- 
ing under  things  with  a  cane  and  what  Merlin  had 
said  to  the  police  over  the  telephone  and  how  Mer- 
lin had  dragged  poor  Eustace  by  the  tail  back  to  his 
bathtub,  swearing  that  he  would  never  part  with 
Eustace  and  wished  he  had  a  thousand  more  just 
like  him. 

" Where  did  you  put  Professor  Syle's  awful 
shoes?"  asked  Rosamonde  with  a  tired  sigh. 

"Outside  on  the  ledge  of  the  bathroom  window/' 
replied  Emily.  "Merlin  found  the  socks,  didn't 
he?" 

"Yes,  but  there  weren't  any  laundry  marks  on 
them;  Bolsheviks  don't  have  'em,  I  guess.  I 
showed  those  socks  to  Merlin,  and  when  I  said 

101 


102  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

that  Eustace  might  use  'em  the  way  bloodhounds 
do  to  trace  up  the  criminal,  of  course,  he  got  mad. 
He  gets  mad  at  everything  I  do." 

And  then  it  was  that  Agnes  entered  to  announce 
that  Mrs.  Shallope  was  calling. 

"What's  come  over  the  old  girl?"  was  Emily's 
natural  question. 

"It's  a  miracle,"  announced  Rosamonde  in  her 
hushed  voice.  "She  didn't  even  get  up  to  go  to 
her  husband's  funeral." 

"She's  probably  come  to  give  me  fits  about 
Oliver,"  said  Emily. 

"You  go  out  and  keep  her  quiet,"  suggested  the 
lazy  Rosamonde,  "until  I  get  something  on." 

That  Emily's  prediction  was  not  entirely  fanciful 
was  proved  almost  upon  Aunt  Carmen's  first  ap- 
pearance. 

"Please  don't,"  she  said  when  Emily  attempted 
to  kiss  her.  "So  you  came  into  town  expressly  to 
meet  that  Browning  boy." 

"You  sent  me  in,  Aunt  Carmen,"  Emily  pointed 
out. 

"I  didn't  send  you  in  to  associate  with  any  ridic- 
ulous little  fortune  hunter.  Emily,  I  don't  know 
which  offended  me  the  more  last  night,  that  Brown- 
ing boy  or  that  alligator.  You  needn't  think  be- 
cause I  said  nothing  that  I  wasn't  offended,  deeply 
offended.  How  long  do  you  intend  to  keep  this  up, 
Emily?" 

"What  up?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  103 

"Don't  look  at  me  in  that  insolent  way!  You 
know  what  I  mean." 

"If  you're  referring  to  Oliver  Browning  I  don't 
mind  saying  that  I  intend  to  marry  him." 

"Not  with  my  consent!"  Her  mouth  drew  to- 
gether into  a  badly  sewed  seam. 

"Aunt  Carmen,"  said  her  penniless  niece,  fold- 
ing her  hands  as  though  to  hold  down  the  Ray 
temper,  "I'm  ever  so  grateful  to  you  for  what 
you've  done — it  was  really  more  than  generous  of 
you." 

"You're  not  going  to  make  a  scene!"  implored 
the  famous  scene-maker. 

"Nothing  like  that.  I  should  a  great  deal  rather 
have  your  consent,  of  course " 

"You  don't  want  my  consent!"  snapped  Car- 
men. "It's  that  Browning  boy  who  simply  can't 
live  without  it." 

"Why?"  Emily's  eyes  widened. 

"My  dear  child,  do  you  think  for  an  instant  that 
he  would  marry  you  if  he  thought  that  you  had 
broken  with  me  and  my  money?" 

"I  don't  understand,  Aunt  Carmen." 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you,  my  dear. 
Emily,  I  love  you  very  much  and  I'll  do  anything 
I  can  to  take  care  of  you,  but  if  it  comes  to  a  mat- 
ter of  throwing  you  at  the  head  of  a  little  adven- 
turer from " 

"Please  don't  say  that,  Aunt  Carmen,"  implored 
Emily,  wringing  her  hands.  "I  can't  stand  it. 


104.  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Oliver  isn't  what  you  say  and  I'm  going  to  him 
and " 

"Good  morning,  Auntie!" 

Rosamonde,  sweeping  forward  in  something 
vain,  violet  and  lacey,  saved  the  straining  thread 
between  Emily  Ray  and  her  patroness. 

"My  dear,  I  couldn't  rest  until  I  came  to  you," 
cried  Aunt  Carmen,  her  black  eyes  snapping  with  a 
new  zest. 

"Rest!"  moaned  Rosamonde.  "There's  no  such 
word  in  this  house.  Merlin  up  all  night  telephon- 
ing to  reporters  from  the  Trombone  and  telling 
them  that  murder  was  loose  all  over  town  because 
the  newspapers  were  pro-League  of  Nations  and 
pro-Bolshevik  and  everything." 

"He's  frightfully  narrow,  isn't  he?"  said  the  sur- 
prising old  thing.  "I  suppose  he  couldn't  endure 
being  told  the  truth." 

Emily  giggled. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Aunt  Car- 
men, turning  fiercely  upon  her  poor  relation. 

"The  truth,"  announced  Emily. 

"If  only  Merlin,"  the  dowager  went  on,  ignoring 
that  sally,  "would  permit  me  to  give  him  a  few 
lessons  in  the  Religion  of  Love.  You  can't  im- 
agine how  it  has  calmed  me." 

There  fell  a  moment's  pause,  then  Carmen  leaned 
secretively  toward  Rosamonde. 

"What  has  become  of  your  delightful  dyna- 
miter?" she  almost  whispered. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  105 

"I  haven't  heard  from  him,"  confessed  Rosa- 
monde  rather  nervously.  "And  I  hope  I  shan't." 

"Why,  my  dear!  Why  shouldn't  you  hear  from 
him?" 

"Merlin  is  in  a  fury.  All  the  papers  this  morn- 
ing are  full  of  it." 

"I  saw  them,"  smiled  the  strange  old  worldling. 
"Wasn't  it  wonderful!  'Millionaire's  Crocodile 
Bites  Burglar.'  Nothing  like  that  ever  happens  to 
me  any  more.  You're  very  fortunate  to  have  a 
real  Bolshevist  on  your  list." 

"Oh!" 

"They're  dreadfully  fashionable,  you  know." 

"But,  Aunt  Carmen,  the  very  thought  of  them 
makes  Merlin  ill." 

"He  has  an  ungovernable  temper,"  said  Aunt 
Carmen,  now  thoroughly  restored.  "The  Valiants 
all  have  bad  tempers.  His  father  was  dropped 
from  the  Tory  Club  after  a  fist  fight  with  Gov- 
ernor Shane.  But  tell  me,  darling,  when  you  saw 
the  reporters  why  didn't  you  tell  them  that  it  was 
Professor  Syle  who  was  bitten?" 

"Of  course  I  couldn't  have  done  that." 

"Why  couldn't  you?  He's  becoming  quite  the 
vogue.  He  has  been  conducting  those  meetings 
for  that  Ballymoore  woman.  I'm  wild  to  meet 
him.  I  wish  you  could  have  stopped  him  last  night 
and  introduced  him." 

"But,  Auntie,  he's  running  away  from  the  po- 
lice  " 

"Is  he?"     The  brilliant  old  eyes  fairly  burned 


106  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

with  excitement.  "And  you  were  hiding  him.  It's 
the  most  romantic  thing!" 

Agnes,  the  patient  and  uncomplaining,  entered 
upon  the  scene. 

"What  is  it,  Agnes?"  asked  Rosamonde,  an- 
noyed with  the  suspicion  that  more  reporters  were 
at  the  telephone. 

"Professor  Syle  is  calling,  Mrs.  Valiant." 

"Tell  him  I'm  busy— that  I'm  out " 

"He's  downstairs,  Mrs.  Valiant." 

"I'm  not  at  home." 

"Rosa!"  Aunt  Carmen's  voice  broke  in  sharply. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  send  him 
away  ?" 

"I  can't  possibly  see  him  after " 

"Well,  then  let  me  see  him.  I  should  die  of  grief 
if  he  shouldn't  come  up." 

"But  suppose  he's  arrested  right  here  in  my 
house." 

"That  would  be  gorgeous.  Think  of  our  being 
in  the  midst  of  that  great  big  delicious  plot " 

Agnes  had  gone  halfway  across  the  drawing- 
room  bent  on  the  commission  of  her  duty  when 
Mrs.  Shallope  stopped  her  with  a  command : 

"Agnes,  Mrs.  Valiant  will  have  the  gentleman 
shown  up." 

When  Professor  Syle  appeared  at  the  entrance 
between  the  Flemish  hall  and  the  Hispano-Italian 
drawing-room  Rosamonde,  deliciously  agitated, 
tottered  to  greet  him  and  was  relieved  to  see  that 
he  was  wearing  shoes  and  that,  although  he  limped 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  107 

slightly  as  he  advanced  to  take  her  hand,  his  ap- 
pearance was  otherwise  conventional. 

"You'll  excuse  my  hurrying  away  last  night," 
were  his  first  words  after  greeting  her. 

"Please  forgive  me!"  supplicated  Rosamonde, 
having  nothing  else  to  say  under  the  odd  circum- 
stances. "I  hope  you  didn't  think  me  inhospi- 
table." 

"Quite  to  the  contrary."  Suddenly  he  changed 
his  tack  and  eyed  her  closely  through  his  thick 
glasses.  "What  was  that  dreadful  creature  that 
sprang  out  of  the  darkness  and  seized  me  by  the 
leg?" 

"Only  an  alligator."     Emily  contributed  this. 

"I  see.  I  see.  Hm.  I  see.  Some  capitalistic 
fad,  I  imagine." 

This  seemed  to  annoy  Rosamonde,  who  was  pre- 
pared to  show  her  aunt  how  Bolshevik  she  had  be- 
come. The  professor  was  already  eying  Aunt  Car- 
men with  something  akin  to  disfavor. 

"My  aunt,  Mrs.  Shallope,  Professor  Syle,"  she 
hastened  to  introduce  them.  Aunt  Carmen  arose 
to  shake  his  hand,  a  thing  she  would  never  have 
done  under  ordinary  circumstances. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Shallope."  His  manner 
suddenly  changed  to  one  of  beaming  cordiality. 
Apparently  he  had  absorbed  the  illustrious  name. 

"I  have  insisted  on  staying,  Professor  Syle,  until 
I  met  you,"  declared  Aunt  Carmen  in  her  most 
honeyed  tone. 

"Ah,  a  fortunate  coincidence!"     He  turned  to 


108  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Rosamonde.     "You  see,  I  came  to  get  my  shoes." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  them  for  you."  It  was  quite 
natural  that  Professor  Syle  would  have  braved  ar- 
rest and  prosecution  to  get  his  shoes. 

"I  can  quite  understand  that,"  smiled  Aunt  Car- 
men. "I've  been  having  mine  made  at  the  same 
shop  for  nearly  fifteen  years." 

The  handy  Emily  had,  meanwhile,  brought  the 
brogans  from  the  bathroom  window  and  was  hold- 
ing them  by  their  large  clumsy  straps. 

"Isn't  it  frightful  the  way  the  price  of  shoes  has 
gone  up !"  Aunt  Carmen  was  gushing  on.  "Thirty- 
five  dollars  for  a  pair  of  walking  boots — imagine !" 

"These,"  replied  Professor  Syle,  "are  especially 
precious." 

"They  look  it,"  agreed  Emily,  and  allowed  them 
to  drop  with  a  thump. 

"They  cost  me — if  I  remember  the  figures  cor- 
rectly— ninety-eight  dollars  and  fifty  cents." 

"Outrageous!"  cried  Aunt  Carmen. 

"They  are  very  dear  to  me,"  declared  Walter 
Scott  Syle  with  a  sentimental  glance  down  at  the 
shoes. 

"They  would  be  very  dear  to  anybody,"  inter- 
polated Emily,  but  won  no  applause. 

"They  were  made  in  a  Communist  shop,"  he  went 
on.  "It  was  an  experiment  in  scientific  coopera- 
tion. The  housing,  the  educational  advantages,  the 
recreation  centers,  the  hours  of  work  were  all  ideal. 
It  was  with  great  regret  that  the  soviet  manage- 
ment were  compelled  to  close  the  plant  after  six 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  109 

months,  due  to  the  fact  that  an  unfair  capitalistic 
competition  compelled  them  to  charge  an  excessive 
price  for  the  finished  product." 

Again  Emily  Ray  emitted  a  small  rippling  sound 
of  mirth. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at  now?"  demanded 
Aunt  Carmen. 

'The  finished  product,"  said  Emily. 

"I  should  be  so  grateful,  Professor  Syle,"  im- 
plored the  grande  dame,  "if  you  could  spare  me 
time  for  instruction  in  your  wonderful  beliefs." 

"Are  you  approaching  the  matter  seriously,  Mrs. 
Shallope?"  he  asked,  after  a  nervous  side  glance 
toward  Emily  Ray. 

"I  am  always  serious,  am  I  not,  Rosa?" 

"Always,  Aunt  Carmen." 

"For  if  your  intentions  are  not,  I  see  no  good 
in  our  wasting  our  time,"  he  threatened. 

Emily  expected  Carmen  to  flare  up  at  this;  but 
to  her  surprise  the  old  wordling  grew  positively 
kittenish. 

"Serious  things  are  a  mania  with  me.  I  simply 
can't  bear  the  government." 

She  failed  to  state  that  her  hostility  against  es- 
tablished law  had  dated  from  the  time  the  county 
assessor  had  increased  her  taxes  for  road  improve- 
ments. 

"In  that  case,"  smiled  Professor  Syle,  "I  am 
sure  you  can  approach  us  with  an  open  mind.  You 
do  not  necessarily  have  to  agree  with  us  in  every 
particular." 


110 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  hate  to  agree  with  people,"  confessed  Aunt 
Carmen. 

"Only  through  disagreement  can  truth  be  born." 

"He's  going  to  start  a  revolution,"  prompted 
Rosamonde,  taking  more  and  more  pride  in  her  ex- 
hibit. 

"How  charming !  I  know  of  two  or  three  houses 
I  should  like  blown  up.  There  are  some  people  I 
simply  can't  bear  who  have  built  a  perfect  eyesore 
half  a  mile  down  the  road  from  me." 

"And  if  you  want  dynamite  or  any  explosive," 
Rosamonde  made  the  generous  offer,  "we  can  get 
them  at  cost  price  through  Merlin.  He's  a  director 
in  one  of  the  big  munitions  trusts,  you  know." 

"We  should  learn  to  walk  before  we  run,"  said 
the  distinguished  prophet  of  discontent  in  his 
smoothest  voice.  "The  support  we  need  at  present 
should  be  along  moral  lines.  When  capitalism  be- 
comes communistic  it  is  no  longer  capitalism.  You 
understand  that?" 

Aunt  Carmen  thought  she  did. 

"Oh,  tell  me,  professor,"  she  implored  with  a 
burst  of  her  native  irrelevancy,  "aren't  you  nearly 
frightened  to  death?" 

"Frightened?"  Walter  Scott  Syle  certainly  did 
not  look  so. 

"Being  here.    And  with  all  the  police  after  you." 

"Here?  Police?"  His  face  was  certainly  now 
disturbed. 

"I  have  told  my  aunt,"  explained  Rosamonde, 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  111 

"how  I  put  you  in  the  spare  room  because  you 
wanted  to  hide  away  from  the  police." 

"Great  Scott!"  It  was  the  most  natural  expres- 
sion she  had  ever  heard  from  those  chaste  lips. 

"Did  you  actually  believe "  And  Professor 

Syle  burst  into  a  fit  of  dry  laughter,  something  that 
seemed  to  undignify  him  in  the  eyes  of  Bolshevism. 

"Well,  you  said  you  wanted  to  be  out  of  sight 
overnight " 

"My  dear  young  lady,  I  did  want  to  be  out  of 
sight  overnight,  but  I  had  not  even  considered  the 
police." 

"Then  who  were  you  trying  to  get  away  from?" 

Professor  Syle  lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential 
pitch : 

"You've  heard,  possibly,  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore  ?" 

"That  woman!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Carmen.  A 
great  bond  of  sympathy  had  arisen  between  herself 
and  the  radical. 

"I  am  not  saying  that  she  is  not  sincere  in  her 
convictions " 

"I  am,"  broke  in  Aunt  Carmen  eagerly.     "Go 


on." 


"But  the  social  program  she  has  been  working  out 
for  me  has  been — might  I  say  it? — a  trifle  trying. 
She  has  been  a  great  power  for  good  in  her  way. 
Several  of  the  meetings  she  has  organized  in  order 
to  teach  communism  to  the  upper  classes  have  been 
helpful  indeed.  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  spread 
the  new  gospel  at  her  receptions,  teas  and  meet- 
ings, but  yesterday,  before  my  lecture  at  Mrs.  van 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Laerens',  she  called  me  up  and  quite  insisted  that 
I  should  come  to  her  house  that  evening  to  give 
readings  from  the  'Life  of  Trotzky.'  I  suppose  one 
in  my  position  should  not  be  weak  ;  but  I  was  quite 
outworn  with  overwork.  After  the  lecture  one  of 
the  Comrades  warned  me  that  Mrs.  Ballymoore 
was  looking  for  me  at  the  Pilsen  School." 

"She's  a  perfect  man-grabber/'  intimated  Aunt 
Carmen,  who  could  never  forgive  her  for  having 
married  Bodfrey  Shallope  before  she  did.  "She'd 
do  anything  to  get  people  interested  in  Vera.  Only 
last  year  a  famous  mural  painter  ran  away  out 
West  to  avoid  one  of  her  receptions." 

"I  can  sympathize  with  him.  And,  Comrade 
Rosamonde"  —  Rosamonde  blushed  at  this  almost 
affectionate  address  —  "it  seemed  so  remote  here 
-  "  A  quaint  description  of  Valiant's  apartment! 
"It  occurred  to  me  that,  since  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  private  property  you  would  not  hesitate  to  se- 
crete me  in  a  place  where  Mrs.  Ballymoore  would 
not  think  of  coming  -  " 

"You  bet  she  wouldn't!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Car- 
men with  more  force  than  elegance. 

Professor  Syle  had  shuffled  to  his  feet  and  was 
now  reaching  for  his  shoes.  But  Aunt  Carmen 
had  no  idea  of  letting  him  go  so  easily.  The  one 
living  passion  in  her  withered  heart,  social  rivalry, 
was  burning  fierce  and  bright. 

"Please  don't  go!"  she  urged. 

Syle  resumed  his  seat,  perching  stiffly  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  113 

"That  Ballymoore  woman  makes  everything  ab- 
surd," she  went  on.  "But  can't  you  teach  us — se- 
riously?" 

"I  should  be  very  glad,  Comrade " 

"Comrade  Carmen!"  the  old  lady  fairly  gasped. 

" to  include  you  in  my  classes."  He  turned 

just  an  instant  and  looked  at  Rosamonde.  His  look 
would  have  been  sentimental  had  it  not  seemed  so 
clouded  in  theories. 

"Or" — he  looked  away  self-consciously  as  soon 
as  her  glance  met  his — "might  it  not  be  helpful  to 
bring  together  several  leaders  in  our  soviet  for  a 
general  discussion  here?" 

"No,  no!"  Rosamonde  was  sorry  as  soon  as  her 
hasty  veto  was  uttered.  But  this  could  not  be. 
"Somewhere  else — it  wouldn't  do  here." 

"Why,  Rosa!"  cried  old  Carmen.  "This  would 
be  a  splendid  room  for  speaking,  wouldn't  it,  Com- 
rade  " 

"Comrade  Walter,"  supplied  the  radical. 

"I  know,"  Rosamonde  demurred.  "It  isn't  that 
—it's  Merlin." 

"Oh,  I  forgot  Merlin,"  agreed  Carmen  in  a 
mournful  tone.  Then  to  Comrade  Walter:  "He's 
her  husband." 

"The  gentleman  who  keeps  the  alligator?"  asked 
the  professor,  rubbing  the  calf  of  his  leg. 

"He  hates  'em,"  said  Rosamonde,  referring 
equally  to  Soviets  and  alligators.  "He  says  the 
Bolshevik!  are  going  to  wreck  our  government." 

"In  that  I  quite  agree  with  him,"  smiled  Syle 


114  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

in  his  gentle  way.  "But  I  see  where  meetings  here 
might  cause  embarrassment." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  looked,  at  the  moment, 
as  though  the  blood  were  leaving  his  head  and  an 
immediate  foot  bath  would  be  indicated. 

"Ah!"  he  gasped,  coming  as  suddenly  out  of  the 
silence.  "You  have  a  very  simple  remedy.  A 
studio." 

And  again  he  went  into  the  silence. 

"A  studio?"  echoed  Aunt  Carmen  and  Rosa- 
monde  in  the  same  breath. 

"In  Pomander  Place,"  he  particularized.  "Pos- 
sibly you  have  never  heard  of  it;  it  is  quite  obscure 
to  capitalist  society — Greenwich  Village — a  short 
cul  de  sac  just  behind  the  Washington  Market.  It 
is  quite  convenient  to  the  center  of  the  revolution, 
and  quite  charming." 

"We  could  take  it  in  your  name,"  said  Carmen, 
her  ancient  talent  for  intrigue  reviving. 

"And  you  could  go  there,  say,  in  the  afternoons 
— or  have  luncheons  served  for  the  more  needy  of 
the  Comrades." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  heavenly!"  cried  Rosamonde, 
clasping  her  useless  little  hands.  "And  so  quaint 
and " 

"I  know  a  studio  which  is,  I  think,  still  vacant. 
It  was  occupied  by  Comrade  Odoroskavitch,  who 
was,  as  you  remember,  martyred  to  jail  by  a  capi- 
talistic judge.  His  furniture  has  been  distributed 
among  the  Comrades." 

"I've  got  quantities  of  furniture  in  several  stor- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  115 

age  warehouses  somewhere  in  the  city/'  came  in 
Aunt  Carmen,  her  generosity  knowing  no  bounds. 
"Some  of  the  chairs  are  upholstered  in  red — just 
the  color.  The  curtains,  I  think,  are  mostly  yellow, 
but  we  could  have  them  dyed." 

"And  we  needn't  let  Merlin  know  a  thing  about 
it " 

A  slight  shuffling  sound  in  the  dining-room 
brought  Rosamonde  out  of  her  dream  of  Utopia 
and  caused  her  to  glance  nervously  round.  The 
tallest,  widest  man  she  had  ever  seen  was  standing 
next  to  the  pantry  door  and  Agnes  was  fluttering 
in  the  foreground,  the  hysterical  picture  of  a  good 
servant  in  a  bad  fix. 

"Agnes,"  her  mistress  called  out  in  angry  tones, 
"who  is  that  man  and  what  does  he  want?" 

"He's  Detective  Cafferty  from  the  police/'  said 
Agnes,  approaching  on  unsteady  legs. 

"Well,  how  in  the  world  did  he  get  in  here?" 

"He  come  up  by  th'  service  elevator,  Mrs.  Val- 
iant. He  says  he  always  comes  that  way  so  he  can 
look  the  job  over  from  behindlike " 

"That  will  do,  Agnes.    Why  did  you  let  him  in?" 

"He  would  come,  Mrs.  Valiant.  He  says  Mr. 
Valiant  says " 

Rosamonde  cast  a  frightened  glance  at  her  Bol- 
shevik, who  remained  perfectly  calm,  sitting  stiffly 
upright  with  his  shoes  on  his  knees. 

The  official  sleuth  came  shambling  forward.  He- 
wore  the  collar  of  his  coat  turned  up ;  his  hair  was 
plastered  in  a  cowlick  above  a  square  forehead  and 


116  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

his  flat,  smooth-shaven,  blank  face  betrayed  him 
for  what  he  was — a  person  who  had  failed  as  a  po- 
liceman and  had  therefore  been  promoted  to  the 
detective  force. 

"Excuse  me,  miss,"  he  began. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Valiant,"  she  corrected  him,  present- 
ing that  icy  surface  which  she  reserved  for  her  so- 
cial inferiors. 

"Mrs.  Vallance,  I'm  Detective  Cafferty  from  po- 
lice headquarters." 

Rosamonde  lifted  her  haughty  eyebrows.  Com- 
rade Walter  budged  not  an  inch. 

"And  we  are  informed  of  a  joolry  robbery  in 
your  flat  last  night." 

"Nothing  was  taken,  Mr.  Cafferty,"  chimed 
Aunt  Carmen  in  the  most  amiable  of  voices;  in  a 
pinch  she  was  the  diplomat  of  the  family.  "You 
see,  we  were  at  dinner  and  the  burglar  must  have 
entered  by  way  of  the  fire  escape  running  up  to 
the  spare-room  window." 

"Then  you  seen  him,  lady?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  all  saw  him.  He  ran  directly  past 
the  dining-room  door  with  the  alligator  biting  his 
ankle." 

"The  ally-gator,"  grunted  Mr.  Cafferty,  appar- 
ently deciding  that  the  peevish  saurian  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  plot.  "And  did  the  gentle- 
man here  see  the  ally-gator?" 

"Surely!"  upspoke  Syle  in  his  refined  voice. 
"Quite  plainly." 

"Mr.  Alexander  was  one  of  our  guests." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  117 

"I  see." 

Mr.  Cafferty  fished  for  a  blue  notebook,  took 
notes  and  proceeded. 

"Mrs.  Vallance,  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  go  over 
the  job.  Where  was  this  spare  room  that  the  bur- 
glar run  into  when  he  escaped?" 

"He  didn't  run  into  it,  he  ran  out  of  it," 
prompted  Emily,  falling  back  upon  a  primal  in- 
stinct for  truth  telling.  "I'll  show  you  the  room." 

"Then  you  know  somethin'  about  this  robbery?" 
Mr.  Cafferty  had  fixed  his  china-blue  eyes  on 
Emily. 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  helped  to "  She  was  going  to  say 

that  she  helped  to  hide  the  burglar  when  she  re- 
membered and  amended — "to  arrange  for  the  din- 
ner party." 

Detective  Cafferty  took  his  time  about  examin- 
ing the  spare  room  while  Rosamonde  and  Emily 
fluttered  after  him.  He  seemed  to  have  an  almost 
childlike  passion  for  getting  his  fingers  into  dusty 
corners.  He  rubbed  dust  from  behind  bureaus  and 
discovered  nothing  more  relevant  than  that  Rosa- 
monde was  a  poor  housekeeper.  He  opened  the 
window  leading  to  the  fire  escape,  and  ere  he  craned 
his  fat  head  into  the  area  space  he  produced  sev- 
eral sheets  of  sensitized  paper  and  rubbed  samples 
across  the  sill. 

These  he  examined  critically. 

"I  know  somethin',"  he  said  at  last  slyly. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  exclaimed  Emily. 


118  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"The  crook  never  come  be  way  of  the  fire  es- 
cape— unless  he  dropped  in  by  an  aeroplane." 

"Oh,  then  you  think " 

"Where  do  ye  keep  that  there  ally-gator?" 

Rosamonde  led  him  to  the  bathroom  and  showed 
him  the  luxurious  tub  wherein  Eustace  maintained 
the  long  sleep  of  ancient  lineage.  Mr.  Cafferty 
poked  him  in  the  back  and  withdrew  his  broad  fin- 
ger with  superhuman  rapidity,  for  Eustace  had 
opened  his  froglike  eyes  and  had  given  one  of  those 
sudden  flips  to  his  tail. 

"Hm!"  said  Mr.  Cafferty,  and  put  more  notes 
into  his  blue  book. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "how  do  ye  account  for  the 
burglar  gittin'  bit  by  the  ally-gator?  Did  he  come 
into  the  flat  be  way  o'  the  hot-water  spiggot?" 

"I  wonder  if  he  did!"  was  Emily's  helpful  com- 
ment. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Cafferty,  putting  away  his 
notebook,  "in  my  opinion  it's  an  inside  job." 

"It's  very  nice  of  you  to  help  us,"  Rosamonde 
complimented. 

But  Mr.  Cafferty  still  lingered. 

"Of  course,  if  it's  worth  yer  while,  we  can  put 
special  men  on  the  case " 

"My  husband  has  notified  several  agencies  al- 
ready." 

"Don't  fool  wid  the  agencies,  lady." 

"Then  I  suppose  we'll  never  find  the  man." 

"Ye  might  and  ye  might  not.    It  depends." 

Something  very  curious  had  happened  to  Mr. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  119 

Cafferty 's  hand.  It  had  formed  itself  into  a  cup 
and  was  wagging  nervously  behind  his  back. 

'There  will  be  a  grand  lot  o'  trouble  in  this  job, 
owin'  to  the  circumstances  and  the  lack  of  evidence. 
But  if  ye  really  want  to  run  down  the  burglar " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean/'  said  Rosamonde 
haughtily. 

The  nervous  hand  behind  Mr.  Cafferty's  back 
continued  to  flutter  so  hungrily  that  none  but  a 
professional  diplomatist  could  have  misinterpreted 
its  meaning.  It  filled  Emily  Ray  with  a  strange 
fascination  and  prompted  her  to  something  which 
she  should  never,  never  have  done.  Against  the 
bureau  mirror  there  snuggled  a  small  pin-cushion, 
a  hard,  handy  object;  and  before  she  had  time  to 
reconsider  she  had  picked  it  up  and  placed  it  care- 
fully in  the  center  of  Mr.  Cafferty's  palm.  But 
Mr.  Cafferty  did  nothing  so  unworldly  as  to  look 
at  it.  He  merely  relaxed  his  hand  and  permitted 
the  pincushion  to  drop  to  the  floor. 

"Ye' re  all  right,  young  lady,"  said  he. 

"And  you're  a  sweet  old-fashioned  soul,"  said 
she. 

"And  I'll  report  this  job  to  headquarters,  but  I 
can't  give  ye  no  encouragement  because  there's  no 
evidence.  Good  day  to  ye,  Mrs.  Vallance  and  Miss 
Vallance." 

But  Emily,  returning  to  the  living  room,  was  not 
attentive  to  where  Detective  Cafferty  was  going  or 
what  he  would  report.  What  principally  intrigued 


120  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

her  was  the  appearance  of  the  stage  she  had  so  re- 
cently quit. 

Aunt  Carmen,  Professor  Syle  and  the  ideal  shoes 
had  taken  their  departure. 


IX 


AN  acid  test  may  result  in  one  of  three  things: 
It  may  discover  a  world  benefit,  it  may  discover 
nothing  or  it  may  blow  up  the  laboratory.  Emily 
Ray's  test,  applied  to  Oliver  Browning,  neither 
benefited  the  world  nor  resulted  in  nothing. 

They  met  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  downtown 
hotel,  preparatory  to  a  lunch  which  was  never 
eaten,  and  almost  the  first  thing  Emily  brought  out 
the  news  with  a  dramatic  flourish: 

"I'm  not  going  back  to  Aunt  Carmen." 

"Well,  why  not?" 

This  response  brought  a  chill  of  apprehension; 
furthermore,  Oliver's  cherubic  features  were  stern 
as  stern  could  be. 

"My  word !"  said  Emily,  drawing  herself  up.  "I 
thought  you'd  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"What's  the  idea?"  asked  Oliver. 

"Mule!"  said  Emily,  quite  without  good  nature. 

"I  know.  But  Aunt  Carmen  was  keeping  you  in 
great  style  out  there  on  Long  Island.  Have  you 
quarreled  or  something?" 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  the  price  I  had 
to  pay  for  that  great  style,  as  you  call  it." 

"I'm  sorry,  dear " 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  snatching  her  hand  away. 

"But,  Emmy,  there's  a  lot  of  grind  to  everything 
121 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


you  do.  Lord  knows  I'm  not  crazy  'bout  Aunt  Car- 
men. But  will  you  be  any  better  off  in  New  York 
living  with  the  wild  Rosa  and  the  alligator  and 
the  barefoot  burglar?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  hardness  in  her 
eyes.  Could  this  be  possible?  Where  was  her  ro- 
mantic dream  of  a  lover  who,  despite  hotel  regula- 
tions, would  gather  her  into  his  arms  and  whisper: 
"Come,  dearest!  There  is  always  some  one  who 
wants  you  more  than  Aunt  Carmen." 

"I  guess  it's  hard  out  there  all  right,"  he  agreed, 
but  he  had  fallen  to  pacing  the  rug  and  to  looking 
as  tragic  as  a  fat  boy  can.  "But  all  I  ask  of  you 
is  to  stick  it  out  until  -  " 

"Well  ?"  said  Emily,  having  also  risen. 

"Can't  you  see,  Emmy,  the  way  I'm  fixed?"  He 
had  faced  her,  his  hands  spread  imploringly.  "I 
can't  live  decently  now  without  stealing  some  mules. 
Please  don't  look  at  me  that  way,  honey.  I  haven't 
done  anything  -  " 

"Nothing,"  she  agreed. 

"The  thing  I  want  most  in  all  the  world  is  to 
marry  you  and  have  a  home." 

"I  see." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing.    But  I  must  go." 

"Where?" 

"To  tell  Aunt  Carmen  that  she  was  right." 

"I  guess  the  Bolshies  have  got  you  good!"  he 
murmured,  but  made  no  move  to  prevent  her  hurry- 
ing from  the  room. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Emily  went  back  to  Rosamonde's  apartment. 
Her  cousin  had  already  departed  with  Professor 
Syle  to  hunt  up  a  studio  in  Pomander  Place,  and 
she  had  no  trouble  in  packing  her  traveling  bag  and 
going  forth  on  the  adventure  which,  in  so  far  as 
we  are  concerned,  lost  her  for  the  space  of  a  fort- 
night. 

It  was  a  few  days  past  April's  foolish  first  when 
Emily  Ray,  a  rough  ready-made  cloak  now  taking 
the  place  of  the  coonskin  coat  she  had  sold  at  a  bar- 
gain, came  down  from  the  Eighth  Street  station  of 
the  Elevated  road  and  proceeded  to  guide  herself 
through  Greenwich  Village  without  the  aid  of  stars 
or  compass.  Behind  the  peaked  clock-tower  of  a 
municipal  building  she  at  last  came  upon  a  little 
toy  street  with  little  toy  sidewalks,  little  toy  trees, 
little  toy  houses  and  a  little  toy  lamp-post  placarded 
Pomander  Place.  Emily  gasped  as  one  is  apt  to 
when  one  comes  upon  the  quaint  and  fanciful  in 
New  York.  The  lane  was  out  of  Dickens  or  Hans 
Christian  Andersen  ;  Professor  Syle  was  to  be  con- 
gratulated in  his  choice  of  such  a  spot  for  Rosa- 
monde's  experiment  in  Bolshevikia. 

Emily  found  the  number  eighteen  on  the  door  of 
a  toy  house  halfway  down  the  lane.  There  was  no 
bell  and  her  knocks  were  unheeded;  therefore,  she 
entered  into  a  bare  gray  hall  and  was  guided  up  a 
doll's  staircase  by  the  sound  of  many  voices.  A 
door,  standing  ajar  at  the  first  landing,  bore  a  large 
card  handsomely  labeled  "Our  Community"  in  red 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


letters.  Here  she  knocked  and  here  again  her 
knock  was  unheeded;  nor  did  her  entrance  upon 
the  strange  scene  make  any  difference  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

The  room  was  full  of  violent  color,  tobacco 
smoke,  noise,  the  odor  of  fried  food.  Emily  rec- 
ognized Aunt  Carmen's  old  red  carpet;  the  win- 
dows were  hung  with  pinkish  curtains  —  apparently 
an  attempt  had  been  made  to  dye  Aunt  Carmen's 
yellow  ones;  the  chairs,  tables  and  bookcases  had 
been  painted  the  orange  tint  that  one  associates 
with  art  in  the  vicinity  of  Washington  Square. 

Dimly  through  the  smoke  many  heads  became 
visible,  mostly  bushy,  some  bald,  all  animate  with 
the  passion  of  argument.  Above  a  long  untidy 
table,  which  bore  the  relics  of  much  food,  there 
loomed  a  hideously  painted  square  of  canvas;  it 
might  have  been  the  work  of  a  child  of  ten  and  it 
was  plainly  intended  to  be  a  portrait  of  a  serious, 
hirsute,  middle-aged  reformer. 

"Why,  Emily  Ray  !"  Out  of  the  smoke  barrage 
somebody  leaped  toward  her,  and  a  moment  later 
Emily  found  herself  panting  in  the  arms  of  her 
cousin  Rosamonde.  Only  it  was  a  strangely  altered 
Rosamonde;  somehow  she  had  tucked  her  hair  in 
underneath  to  give  the  prevailing  Buster  Brown  ef- 
fect and  she  wore  a  smock  frock  embroidered  in 
green  medallions  and  baggy  Turkish  trouser-things 
of  noisy  Japanese  silk  —  heaven  knows  what  she 
didn't  wear! 

"Emmy,  darling!"  she  was  rejoicing.     "I'm  so 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


glad  you've  come  at  last.  I've  been  so  worried 
about  you.  Where  have  you  been?" 

"Hunting  a  job,  finding  it  and  quitting,"  was 
Emily's  brief  version  of  her  adventures. 

"You  simply  left  the  apartment  without  a  word 
and  I've  been  telephoning  almost  every  day  to  Aunt 
Carmen  and  to  Oliver  —  you've  been  lost  without  a 
trace.  What  in  the  world's  come  over  you?" 

"I  was  going  to  ask  the  same  thing  about  you," 
said  Emily. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  Rosamonde  gestured  to- 
ward the  decorations  and  pouted  prettily  as  she  did 
when  anybody  found  fault. 

"Of  course  I  haven't  got  used  -  " 

"Oh,  you  must.  You  haven't  any  idea  how  soon 
you  will.  Come  over  here  and  meet  the  Com- 
rades." 

Poor,  rich,  overfed,  undeveloped  Rosamonde! 
Rapturously  she  guided  her  untutored  cousin  by  the 
hand  and  brought  her  face  to  face  with  Bolshe- 
vikia,  or  at  least  that  section  of  the  Red  Republic 
which  lolled  together  on  a  divan  and  hungrily  in- 
haled Rosamonde's  gold-tipped  cigarettes. 

The  free  citizens,  presented  to  Emily  one  at  a 
time,  differed  from  the  rest  of  New  York  as  much, 
say,  as  the  Czechs  differ  from  the  Moros.  Smock 
frocks,  of  course,  were  vogue  for  all  the  women 
and  some  of  the  men.  But  their  variety  was  in- 
finite. There  was  a  Miss  Felda  Drigg,  who  wore 
her  hair  close-cropped  and  had  the  face  of  a  dis- 
solute Roman  senator;  she  had  a  small  rabbit-  faced 


126 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

husband  whose  name,  it  seemed,  was  Mr.  Eldred 
Smole.  By  profession  he  was  paragrapher  on  the 
Outburst.  Comrade  Alfonzo,  the  bright-toothed 
Mexican  bandit,  shook  hands  with  a  snarl,  and 
Comrade  Tony,  who  was  plotting  a  national  bar- 
bers' strike,  greeted  her  greasily  and  challenged 
her  on  several  subjects  which  his  point  of  view  and 
his  Italian  accent  rendered  quite  unintelligible. 
Then  there  was  Comrade  Epstein  who,  though  most 
certainly  not  Irish,  proclaimed  his  conversion  to  the 
Sinn  Fein  movement. 

Rosamonde  had  no  doubt  been  busy.  Emily  in- 
timated as  much  when  at  last  they  found  them- 
selves isolated  behind  the  untidy  luncheon  table. 

"It's  been  the  most  mar-velous  success  from  the 
first!"  crowed  Rosamonde.  "We  now  have  twenty 
Comrades  in  to  lunch  every  noon  and  we're  try- 
ing to  extend  the  table  space." 

"And  what  do  you  do  with  the  surplus?"  asked 
Emily. 

"What  surplus?"  asked  Rosamonde. 

"Why,  from  the  luncheons." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  don't  understand  the  system 
at  all.  We  don't  do  anything  for  money  down 
here.  When  the  revolution  is  over  we  can  all  pay 
on  a — what  you  call  it? — quid  pro  quo  or  some- 
thing." 

"I  see.     I  suppose  Merlin's  perfectly  charmed." 

"Oh,  Merlin !  He's  in  California.  Isn't  it  prov- 
idential? He'll  be  gone  till  the  middle  of  the 
month,  and  I  hope  it  improves  his  temper." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 127 

"It  should/'  suggested  Emily  drily.  "What's 
that  picture?" — indicating  the  impressionistic  can- 
vas. 

"That's  a  portrait  of  Lenine.  Isn't  it  charming? 
It  was  done  by  one  of  the  Pilsen  School." 

"One  of  the  kindergarten  pupils?" 

"How  you  talk !  It's  a  vibratist  picture  and  was 
painted  by  Miss  Drigg " 

"The  married  maiden  with  the  short  hair?  How 
much  did  it  cost  you?" 

"Only  a  hundred  and  fifty.  The  poor  things  are 
always  hard  up — you  know,  that's  the  penalty  of 
being  emancipated.  But  tell  me,  Emmy,  what  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

"I've  come  here  to  ask  you,"  confessed  her  cou- 
sin. "I  got  my  old  place  back  at  Beltman's — but 
something's  happened  to  me,  Rosa.  I  don't  seem 
to  stick  to  things.  I  think  life  at  Plainview  has 
made  me  soft — I  can't  do  anything  without  a  serv- 
ant to  wait  on  me.  And  the  boarding  house  food 
— whew !" 

"It's  strange  the  way  you're  treating  Oliver," 
mused  Rosamonde.  "He  can't  understand  it." 

"I  think  he  can,"  replied  Emily,  quite  without 
warmth. 

The  Comrades  on  the  divan  were  now  going  it 
with  the  energy  of  competitive  auctioneers.  "Land 
distribution,"  "The  right  to  live,"  "The  total  eradi- 
cation of  wage  slavery"  were  but  a  few  of  the  many 
phrases  hurled  in  falsetto,  basso  and  soprano, 


128  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

snarled,  shrieked,  roared  and  growled  from  the 
soft-padded  forum  of  free  opinion. 

"Do  they  go  like  that  all  the  time?"  asked  Emily. 

"Most  of  the  time,"  admitted  Rosamonde. 
"Aren't  they  lovely?" 

"You  always  did  like  noisy  pets,"  said  the  poor 
relation. 

"I'm  going  to  Bleriot's,"  said  Rosamonde,  look- 
ing down  at  those  silken  trousers,  "to  select  some 
costumes.  I  want  something  really  good." 

"You're  dressing  the  part,  I  see." 

"One  must,  you  know.  I've  gotten  several  cos- 
tumes ready-made  in  the  village.  Bleriot  is  fairly 
swamped  with  orders.  But  I  mustn't  wear  this 
thing  out  in  the  street.  Come  in  while  I  change 
and  let's  talk." 

A  little  room  off  the  studio  had  been  partially 
outfitted  with  bureau  and  chairs.  The  parts  of  a 
brass  bed  lay  piled  against  the  wall  and  a  dressing 
table  stood  conveniently  near  the  window. 

"I  just  use  it  as  a  place  to  change  in,"  explained 
Rosamonde,  already  divesting  herself  of  Bolshe- 
vikia's  odd  garments.  "You  see  that  door  beyond 
is  sealed  up  now,  but  it  leads  into  another  bed- 
room where  two  of  the  dearest  old  maids — Com- 
rade Elsa  and  Comrade  Hattie — stay.  Elsa's  a 
teacher  in  the  Pilsen  School  of  Radical  Culture, 
you  know." 

"Of  course,"  said  Emily.  "But  do  you  ever  see 
Professor  Syle  any  more?" 

"Ever  see  him !    Why,  my  dear,  he's  here  almost 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  129 

•  . 

every  afternoon.    He's  the  very  spirit  of  the  place." 

"How  splendid !" 

Poor  Emily  was  thinking  of  making  a  humble 
request,  but  she  decided  to  withdraw  it. 

"Emmy!"  cried  young  Mrs.  Valiant,  turning  as 
she  adjusted  a  conventional  walking  skirt,  "why 
couldn't  you  come  and  take  this  room?" 

"Well,  I  could." 

"There  wouldn't  be  the  least  danger  in  all  the 
world.  We  could  have  Comrade  Elsa's  door  un- 
sealed and  you'd  be  just  as  chaperoned  as  a  girl 
could  be." 

"How  about  Professor  Syle?" 

"He's  a  wonderful  person.  He'd  never  bother 
you.  Of  course  Comrade  Niki  comes  in  to  cook 
the  lunch." 

"For  the  good  of  the  cause?" 

"I  pay  him  a  nominal  sum — nine  dollars  a  week, 
I  think  it  is.  He  never  complains.  He's  a  remark- 
able reformer  and  is  going  to  do  wonders  with 
Japan." 

Emily  was  almost  convinced  when  they  entered 
the  Valiant  car — conveniently  waiting  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Eighteenth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue — and 
they  were  merrily  whirling  toward  Madame  Ble- 
riot's  fashionable  atelier.  Emily  wanted  no  more 
of  Aunt  Carmen,  nor  did  she  fancy  the  life  of  a 
wage-earner  which  had  once  seemed  her  destiny. 
She  could  slip  into  Rosamonde's  mad  studio  where, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  she  could  accomplish  much 
toward  paying  her  board.  At  any  rate  it  would 


130  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

give  her  a  certain  shelter  until  she  could  look  to- 
ward something  better. 

Since  Mrs.  Valiant  was  one  of  Bleriot' s  best  cus- 
tomers, it  was  small  wonder  that  the  madame  her- 
self greeted  the  ladies  smilingly,  and  offered  them 
chairs  at  a  confidential  corner  of  the  elegant  Em- 
pire room,  where  ruinous  plots  were  hatched  against 
half  the  wealthy  husbands  in  America. 

"We  can  now  offer  you  so  many  beautiful  things, 
Madame  Valiant,"  cried  Madame  Bleriot,  the  sweet, 
generous  soul.  "So  many  ateliers  of  Paris  have 
again  opened." 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  for  inside  wear, 
for "  Rosamonde  hesitated  to  show  embar- 
rassment before  a  mere  trades  person. 

"Nicolette!"  Madame  clasped  her  plump  hands 
and  the  slave  of  the  lamp  appeared.  She  rippled 
something  about  robe  de  la  rose  then,  rolling  her 
bulging  brown  eyes  again  toward  Rosamonde :  "Of 
soisette,  Madame,  with  something  nouvelle — every- 
body will  rage  about  it  in  the  spring.  A  bodice 
of  plaited  straw.  Tres  sauvage!" 

"It  must  be  lovely/'  Rosamonde  agreed  for 
agreement's  sake.  "But,  Madame  Bleriot,  you  see 
I've  taken  a  studio " 

"Ah-h-h-h !"  Madame  Bleriot  upheld  her  hands 
and  uttered  a  long  snarling  sound  indicative  of 
sympathy  and  understanding.  "They  are  in  vogue 
now — we  have  provided  for  that.  Just  this  week 
Mrs.  Winslow  Husk" — Madame  counted  them  off 
on  her  fingers — "Mrs.  Kilman  Trencherley,  Mrs. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  131 

Hezekiah  Ammon — all  have  ordered  something  for 
studio  wear.  What  is  your  metier,  Madame,  sculp- 
ture or  dancing?" 

Rosamonde  paused  just  a  moment,  then  whis- 
pered : 

"Bolshevism." 

"Ah-h-h-h!"  The  same  snarl,  only  longer  this 
time.  "We  have  provided  for  that  also.  You  see, 
Madame  Valiant,  it  is  our  beezness  to  anticipate 
styles." 

Without  even  rising  madame  reached  to  the  shelf 
of  a  tiny  gilt  desk  and  picked  up  a  brown  portfolio, 
which  she  rested  precariously  on  her  sloping  lap. 

"Designs  by  Henri  Stuck,"  she  said  descriptive- 
ly, and  turned  the  pages  slowly  before  Rosamonde's 
and  Emily's  astonished  gaze. 

The  drawings  were  colored  violently  by  hand, 
and  although  the  poses  were  ladylike  in  the  extreme 
the  costumes  were  suggestive  of  Bakst  in  a  lilting 
mood.  A  lady  wearing  what  appeared  to  be  red 
rubber  boots  below  a  violet  gingham  pinafore  with 
an  Elizabethan  collar  of  stiff  gold  lace  was  among 
a  few  of  the  more  conventional.  There  was  also 
a  one-piece  munition  worker's  costume,  the  mate- 
rial being  apple  green  with  short  leggings  of  gold 
accentuating  white,  square-toed  slippers.  The  la- 
dies depicted  almost  invariably  wore  their  hair 
bobbed  and  many  had  red  skull  caps. 

"How  won-derful!"  cried  Rosamonde,  her 
breath  taken  away. 

"No,  no !"  protested  madame  with  a  shrug.   "We 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


must  look  forward.  And  we  have  had  so  many 
calls  for  costumes  among  ladies  who  are  going  in 
for  —  what  do  you  call  it?  —  radicalism." 

"Not  really!" 

"Madame  !"  Bleriot  bridled  as  though  her  honor 
had  been  questioned.  "In  any  great  movement  you 
must  have  uniforms  suitable  to  it  —  not  so?  Be- 
hold afternoon  dancing!  Was  not  that  a  cause  for 
short-skirt  style?  And  does  not  skating  require  its 
costume?  And  so  much  wealth  in  America  — 
among  ladies  —  has  gone  into  La  Bolshevique." 

"And  there  has  been  a  demand?" 

"So  great  we  can  hardly  fill  it.  Already  Mrs. 
Chauncey  Huggensinger  has  ordered  three  —  I  shall 
show  you." 

Madame  Bleriot  turned  to  three  of  the  most  fan- 
tastic designs.  Rosamonde,  obviously  sensing  the 
pang  of  disappointment  which  a  New  Yorker  must 
feel  after  any  attempt  to  be  original,  thumbed  the 
cards,  confused.  Should  she  resort  to  a  Greenwich 
Village  dressmaker  after  all? 

"Tacky!"  said  she  as  if  to  herself.  Rosamonde 
loathed  tacky  as  nature  loathes  a  vacuum.  She 
sat  considering. 

"Just  look  at  this!"  cried  Emily,  holding  up  a 
card  illustrating  a  lady  with  a  jockey  cap,  bare 
limbs  and  a  tunic  of  ermine.  "A  riding  habit  for 
the  Ostrich  Show  !" 

But  Madame  Bleriot'  s  eyes  were  roving  toward 
the  door,  where  apparently  customers  of  more  im- 
portance even  than  Mrs.  Shallope  were  entering. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  133 

"Pardon!"  she  exclaimed,  and  dashed  across  the 
room. 

Stung  in  her  vanity  as  a  spoiled  customer  is  apt 
to  be  when  another  and  more  spoiled  appropriates 
the  shopkeeper's  attention,  Rosamonde  looked  sav- 
agely up.  Emily's  eyes  followed  those  of  her  cou- 
sin. The  newcomers  were  two,  and  by  their  ap- 
pearance, mother  and  daughter.  The  elder  offered 
the  appearance  of  a  withered  Venus  whose  Grecian 
profile  had  sharpened  to  a  wedge;  but  when  you 
looked  at  the  younger  you  could  see  that  the  wedge 
had  always  been  there.  For  the  daughter's  face 
was  beautifully  regular,  but  hard  and  chisel-sharp; 
she  was  dressed  in  wintry  gray  to  match  her  wintry 
gray  eyes. 

"Who?"  asked  Emily,  seeing  her  cousin's  lips 
moving. 

"Mrs.  Ballymoore  and  Vera,"  whispered  Rosa- 
monde. 

Emily  took  a  curious  look  at  Aunt  Carmen's 
lifelong  enemy;  but  her  curiosity  was  more,  per- 
haps, for  that  daughter  who  had  been  pictured  in 
every  Sunday  supplement  as  a  reigning  beauty,  yet 
who  never  seemed  able  to  get  a  man  interested  to 
the  marriage  point.  Emily  saw  why.  The  only 
obstacle  to  Vera's  success  was  Vera  Ballymoore, 
who  was  ice. 

The  spying  eyes  of  the  opposing  camps  met  mid- 
way, for  Mrs.  Ballymoore  smiled  stiffly  and  bowed. 
Miss  Ballymoore  put  a  trifle  more  of  condescension 


134  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

f^*^""**"™"^**^"^^^^^^^^"**"*^'^™"'"^^^^^^^^^^^™""™^^^^"'™*^^^^^"'^'*""'^ 

into  her  manner  as  she  also  recognized  Mrs.  Val' 
lant. 

"How-do-you-do?"  she  asked,  with  a  sweetness 
that  stung  like  a  blizzard  wind. 

They  then  concentrated  their  attention  on  the 
good  Bleriot  who  was  bustlingly  at  their  service. 

"But,  yes,  madame,  mademoiselle's  trousers  will 
be  gathered  at  the  ankles  and  the  smock  frock  with- 
out a  belt,  as  you  suggest — but  no !  The  belt  would 
be  gauche.  Henri  Stuck  is  making  special  drawings 
including  those  admirable  changes  mademoiselle 
was  suggesting.  .  .  .  Ah,  as  you  say,  it  is  very 
poor  form,  madame,  to  appear  at  these  radical 
meetings  in  a  broadcloth  street  costume.  Let  me 
show  you  what  I  mean." 

Madame  Bleriot  came  over  to  where  Rosamonde 
sat  spitefully  sketching  with  her  gold  pencil  on  the 
back  of  an  envelope.  She  had  dropped  the  port- 
folio to  the  floor. 

"Pardon!  Might  I  take  just  one  of  the  draw- 
ings— only  the  one  with  the  red  medallions." 

"Take  them  all,"  replied  Rosamonde  generously, 
as  she  kicked  the  portfolio  along  the  rug.  "They 
are  all  stupid.  I'm  working  out  a  design  for  my- 
self." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Emily  decided  to  try 
her  luck  with  the  Comrades  of  Pomander  Place. 


X 


ROSAMONDE  took  Emily  down  to  number  eighteen 
next  morning  in  time  for  her  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  environment  that  was  to  be  hers  from 
then  on.  In  the  hours  surrounding  lunch,  she 
found  out  much  more  about  Bolshevikia  than  poor 
Rosamonde  could  possibly  dream  of  in  her 
philosophy. 

The  community  luncheons — for  so  they  were 
called — had  become  almost  overwhelmingly  popu- 
lar in  the  Quarter  and  for  a  reason  at  once  ap- 
preciated by  the  Comrades:  The  food  was  free. 
Mrs.  Finnessey  had  first  thought  of  the  plan,  which 
Comrade  Walter  Scott  Syle  had  heartily  indorsed, 
although  he  ate  there  only  occasionally.  A  long 
rough  table  had  been  knocked  together  in  the  rear 
room  of  the  studio  and  upon  this  a  red  cloth  was 
forever  spread.  It  was  the  only  lunch-room  in 
New  York  which,  utterly  without  advertising, 
seemed  to  turn  away  customers  from  the  first  day. 
Miss  Felda  Drigg  and  her  husband,  Mr.  Eldred 
Smole,  of  the  Outburst,  were,  I  might  say,  among 
her  steadiest  patrons,  and  with  them — usually 
coming  early  in  order  to  get  good  seats — were 
Comrade  Alfonzo,  of  Villa's  way  of  thinking,  Com- 

135 


136  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

rade  Tony  the  barber,  the  advanced  Sinn  Feiner 
named  Epstein  and  the  dangerous  Japanese  Bol- 
shevist, Comrade  Hanako  Niki. 

Comrade  Niki,  yellowest  of  the  Reds,  was  four 
feet  eight  inches  of  untranslatable  emotion.  He 
enjoyed  over  the  other  Comrades  the  advantage 
of  saying  things  which  nobody  but  himself  could 
understand.  There  was  always  a  Russian  or  an 
Italian  or  a  Balkan  or  a  Finn  present  to  translate 
from  the  inspired  remarks  of  compatriots;  but 
Comrade  Niki  went  it  alone. 

It  had  been  Professor  Syle's  suggestion  that  since 
the  luncheons  were  an  experiment  in  communism 
the  Comrades  should  all  pitch  in  together  and  do 
the  cooking.  It  had  worked  pretty  well  for  one  or 
two  enthusiastic  days,  but  after  that  came  chaos. 
It  seemed  that  Comrade  Felda  and  Comrade  Al- 
fonzo  had  different  ideas  about  making  coffee 
which  led  to  words;  Comrade  Tony  had  insisted 
that  there  should  be  spaghetti  with  every  meal,  but 
Comrade  Epstein,  the  Sinn  Feiner,  grew  bitter  at 
the  thought  and  pointed  out  that  the  Internationale 
would  protest  against  every  suggestion  of  provin- 
cialism. 

On  the  third  day  it  had  looked  as  though  there 
would  be  no  lunch,  but  Comrade  Niki  had  solved 
the  situation  in  his  artless  Japanese  way.  The 
Comrades  were  quarreling  noisily  among  them- 
selves. Rosamonde,  who  had  got  herself  into  one 
of  her  village  creations,  was  running  hither  and 
thither,  quite  hysterically  planning  to  break  a  num- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  137 

ber  of  eggs  into  a  frying  pan  and  to  add  butter  and 
to  stir  it  over  a  hot  fire  and  to  bid  the  Comrades 
help  themselves  and  be  still.  Then  she  had  found 
that  the  gas  stove  wouldn't  work ;  the  stove  was  one 
of  those  automatic  quarter-in-the-slot  affairs  and 
the  mortgage  had  foreclosed  itself,  mechanically 
speaking. 

The  Comrades  had  deserted  the  kitchen  and  were 
assembled  about  the  dining-room,  a  soviet  about  to 
be  born. 

"I  object  to  coercive  measures  either  in  public 
or  private  life !"  Miss  Drigg  had  snapped,  her  com- 
plexion yellowing  over  her  orange-colored  collar 
as  she  glared  at  Comrade  Alfonzo,  who  was  show- 
ing his  teeth. 

"It's  de  prmci-pal!"  the  Villista  had  growled. 
"An'  you  call  America  free!" 

"Who  ever  called  America  free?"  Drigg's  hus- 
band had  challenged,  quick  to  avenge  the  insult. 

Daggers  had  filled  the  air.  Doom  had  impended. 
Poor  Rosamonde  had  been  about  to  open  a  window 
and  call  vulgarly  for  the  capitalistic  police,  when 
like  a  yellow  little  streak  with  a  wiry  black  top- 
knot Comrade  Niki  had  got  himself  on  a  chair 
and  clapped  his  babylike  hands. 

"Yes.  Yes.  I  say  it!"  He  had  grinned  terrific- 
ally and  made  a  peculiar  hissing  sound  as  his  black 
pompadour  bobbed  innumerable  times.  "How  can 
you  start  that  thing  without  doing  anything?  I 
ask.  Everybody  be  comfortable,  please,  for  future 
revolution.  I  cook." 


138  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

And  without  another  word  he  got  down  and  took 
possession  of  the  kitchen. 

Emily  got  most  of  this  from  Rosamonde,  related 
in  Rosamonde's  own  scatter-brained  style  in  the 
hour  before  lunch  when  Emily  industriously  studied 
the  peculiarities  of  Bolshevik  decoration.  She 
thought  she  would  get  used  to  everything  except  the 
portrait  of  Lenine,  but  that  would  always  offend 
her  with  the  information  that  poor  Rosamonde 
had  paid  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  a  comic 
valentine. 

Out  in  the  little  galley  they  called  a  kitchen  she 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  tiny  Niki,  surrounded  by 
fruits  and  vegetables,  loudly  chanting  something 
which  he  seemed  to  think  was  the  Japanese  inter- 
national ode.  It  sounded  like: 

Ichi  ko-ko! 
Washi  nero. 

Can!  Can! 
No!  No! 
Go  banzai! 
Go  sago, 
Go  kaliko. 

Nichi-nichi 
Ko-ko! 

She  complimented  him  on  his  song,  whereupon 
he  stopped  singing  and  looked  at  her  with  a  flat  cal- 
culating eye. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  139 

"How  muchly  you  pay  me  per  weekly?"  he 
asked. 

She  was  somewhat  taken  aback.  Then  she  put 
to  him  the  question  which  is  usually  disastrous  in 
dealings  between  an  Oriental  and  an  Occidental. 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"Eleven  dollars  sufficient." 

"I  no  boss,"  she  tried  to  make  herself  plain. 
"Mrs.  Valiant  boss." 

"No  boss  in  world  some  more,"  Comrade  Niki 
voiced  his  version  of  Trotzky. 

"Maybe  not." 

"You  new  Com-er-ar?"  he  asked,  smiling  and 
bowing  with  a  loud  hiss. 

"Much  new,"  she  agreed,  returning  bow  for  bow, 
hiss  for  hiss. 

"Mrs.  Finnessey's  away  for  a  week;  but,  of 
course,  you'll  have  to  dodge  Aunt  Carmen,"  said 
Rosamonde,  as  soon  as  a  few  of  the  more  eager 
Comrades  had  strolled  in  to  obtain  free  cigarettes 
before  the  free  food. 

"My  Lord!    Does  she  come  here?" 

"She's  been  only  once.  Then  she  scolded  me 
because  I  was  selfish,  running  the  place  all  for  my 
own  benefit,  and  she  threatened  to  take  away  the 
furniture  and  everything  till  I  had  to  call  in  Com- 
rade Walter  to  soothe  her.  Comrade  Walter 
swore  up  and  down  that  the  community  lunch  was 
entirely  for  Aunt  Carmen's  benefit,  but  I  couldn't 
see  how,  as  she  hates  spaghetti.  Finally  we  com- 


140  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

promised  by  promising  her  that  we  would  hold  a 
soviet  of  the  Soviets  just  to  show  her  how  wonder- 
fully we  were  getting  on." 

"What's  a  soviet  of  the  Soviets?"  asked  Emily. 

"It's  like  a  house  of  bishops  or  something,"  re- 
plied Rosamonde  vaguely.  "So  we  promised  Aunt 
Carmen  one  and  she  said  she  had  the  Knicker- 
bocker ball  Monday  and  bridge  at  Mrs.  Jeckyl's 
Tuesday,  so  Professor  Syle  settled  on  Wednesday 
night."' 

"That's  to-morrow!"     Emily  was  horrified. 

"Don't  worry,  dear,  we  can  poke  you  away  some- 
where." 

"Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  be  there !"  cried  Em- 
ily, picturing  in  her  mind  how  Aunt  Carmen  would 
look  in  a  soviet  of  the  Soviets. 

The  luncheon,  which  was  fully  attended  as  usual, 
consisted  of  spaghetti,  a  sample  of  Niki's  nourish- 
ing stew  and  much  thin  red  wine.  Thin  red  con- 
versation, too,  added  mild  stimulation.  When  a 
Comrade  wanted  an  extra  helping,  as  he  usually 
did,  he  went  out  in  the  kitchen  with  his  plate,  cafe- 
teria fashion,  and  helped  himself.  Emily  sat  next 
to  Comrade  Alfonzo  who,  as  he  suavely  explained, 
had  been  exiled  from  Mexico — which  he  pro- 
nounced Me-hic-o — for  murdering  a  schoolmis- 
tress. He  seemed  much  distressed  by  the  injus- 
tice done  him  by  his  fellow  men.  Comrade  Ep- 
stein, occupying  the  place  at  her  other  hand,  had 
gone  to  Ireland  to  stir  up  trouble  against  the  Eng- 
lish government,  but  how  he  had  fared  seemed  to 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


be  a  mystery  locked  in  the  breast  of  Comrade  Ep- 
stein. 

Revolution  was  discussed  pro  and  con,  the  word 
being  a  stock  one,  employed  about  as  frequently 
as  election  is  in  ordinary  party  caucuses.  But  the 
difference  between  revolution  and  election  was  that 
election  comes  on  a  set  day  whereas  revolution 
seemed  to  be  a  will  o'  the  wisp,  now  here,  now 
there.  As  the  lunch  waxed  and  some  grew  sleepy 
Comrade  Alfonzo  was  more  and  more  for  imme- 
diate bloodshed. 

"I  kill,"  he  said  at  last,  and  went  staggering 
down  the  stairs. 

"Great  heavens!"  murmured  Emily.  "Who  will 
he  kill?" 

"Nobody,"  replied  Comrade  Epstein  easily.  "He 
always  goes  that  way." 

Comrade  Hattie,  Comrade  Elsa's  meek,  wizened 
little  roommate,  wanted  Fifth  Avenue  divided  into 
zones  and  policed  by  women  with  powers  to  stop 
and  arrest  all  persons  with  fortunes  over  two  thou- 
sand dollars.  Emily  didn't  meet  Comrade  Elsa, 
who  was  away  somewhere  attending  a  class  in 
something.  Comrade  Niki  went  right  on  with  his 
job,  singing  war  songs  as  he  worked  and  at  about 
half-past  two  he  began  clearing  off  the  table  with 
a  loud  clatter. 

The  afternoon  had  reached  its  doldrums  and  the 
comrades  had  gone  back  to  their  caves  to  sleep  off 
the  effects  of  the  community  lunch  when  Pro- 
fessor Walter  Scott  Syle  called.  He  arrived 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


while  Emily  was  trying  to  make  something  hu- 
manly habitable  out  of  the  dungeon  which  was 
henceforth  to  be  her  bedroom;  from  the  studio 
room  she  caught  his  unmistakable  lecturing  tones. 
Through  a  crack  in  the  door  she  could  see  him  loll- 
ing on  the  divan,  his  auburn  eyes  regarding  Rosa- 
monde,  who  sat  in  the  attitude  of  a  woman  who 
disapproves  and,  disapproving,  smiles.  She  caught 
an  occasional  sentence  and  gathered  that  Professor 
Syle  was  distraught  and  was  blaming  it  all  to  eco- 
nomic conditions. 

"Under  the  system  of  state  marriages,"  she  could 
hear  him  say  —  "and  state  marriages  are  the  only 
scientific  arrangement  —  please  observe  how  well 
the  plan  has  worked  in  Russia  under  the  soviet 
constitution"  —  Little  Niki  could  be  heard  clattering 
pans  and  singing  the  Japanese  Marseillaise  out  in 
the  kitchen  —  "there  would  be  no  chance  for  the  ab- 
surd domestic  arrangement  you  have  made  with 
that  capitalist,  Valiant.  Under  the  new  states  such 
a  union  would  be  regarded  as  both  immoral  and 
illegal." 

"You  might  leave  my  husband  out  of  the  argu- 
ment," she  replied,  turning  upon  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"Your  husband!  My  dear  child,  you  can't  pos- 
sibly be  trying  to  support  private  ownership  after 
all  I  have  taught  you." 

Emily  laughed.  She  couldn't  help  laughing  at 
the  thought  of  Merlin  in  the  light  of  a  public  hus- 
band. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  143 

"He's  privately  owned  by  me,  I  don't  care  what 
you  say,"  Rosamonde  replied. 

Comrade  Walter  stroked  his  yellowish  hair  and 
would  have  declared  himself  forthwith  no  doubt 
had  not  the  sound  of  feet  on  the  painted  slivery 
studio  floor  startled  him  out  of  his  mood. 

"Oh,  yes,  we've  met,"  smiled  Emily  at  Rosa- 
monde's  attempted  introduction. 

"Not  really?"  Comrade  Walter's  affability  was 
beautiful  to  see.  Apparently  he  had  forgotten  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  at  Mrs.  van  Laerens' — and  then  at  the 
dinner  party.  I  don't  suppose  you  remember  poor 
little  me — you  were  just  leaving  when  I  saw  you." 

"Alone?"  asked  the  confused  one. 

"No,  I  couldn't  say  that.  You  were  arm  and 
arm  with  an  alligator,  as  I  remember  it." 

"Good  gracious!"  Syle  came  out  of  his  Utopia 
a  moment  and  was  natural.  "Were  you  another 
of  those  abominable  capitalists?" 

He  moved  a  step  toward  the  door,  but  paused 
and  looked  again  at  Emily.  Rosamonde,  it  was 
plain,  rather  wished  that  he  would  go. 

"Mottos  and  red  flags  and  everything,"  said  Em- 
ily, looking  round  the  place.  "I  suppose  you  keep 
the  bombs  under  that  divan." 

"No,"  corrected  Professor  Syle.     "Literature." 

"And  literature  and  vodka  and  everything." 
Emily  beamed  over  the  spectacle.  "I  want  to  have 
a  seat  in  the  dress  circle,  not  too  near  the  stage, 
and  see  what  happens  when  Merlin  Valiant  comes 
back.  I  do  love  a  bullfight." 


144  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"If  we  stopped  to  consider  the  capitalists,"  an- 
nounced Comrade  Walter,  pacing  back  and  forth, 
4 'there  would  be  no  revolution." 

" You've  said  something,  professor,"  beamed  the 
little  intruder. 

Rosamonde,  nervously  conscious  of  this  false 
note  in  the  song  of  songs,  hurried  to  change  the 
subject. 

"It  will  be  lovely  of  you  to  stay  and  look  after 
things." 

"Lovely  for  me,  I  should  say;  I've  plenty  of 
time."  Then  by  way  of  explanation:  "You  see, 
I  was  fired  last  night." 

"Ah !"     His  look  gained  interest. 

"From  Beltman's.  They  took  me  back,  but  it 
seems  that  life  on  Long  Island  completely  spoiled 
me  for  the  glove  counter.  I  had  a  swelled  head, 
I'm  afraid.  Anyhow  the  floorwalker  told  the  man- 
ager and  I  got  mine  inside  a  week." 

"Just  one  of  a  million  instances  of  capitalistic 
injustice,"  Comrade  Walter  argued  passionately. 

"Fudge!"  said  Emily.  "I  got  what  was  coming 
to  me.  If  you  run  a  department  store  as  a  work- 
ing girls'  tea-party  you've  got  to  close  up  or  move 
to  Sixth  Avenue  where  customers  don't  seem  to 
care  whether  they're  waited  on  or  not.  The  trou- 
ble with  me  was  I'd  got  so  used  to  being  waited  on 
that  I  couldn't  wait  on  anybody  else.  So  I  was 
fired.  I  went  across  to  Sixth  Avenue,  to  Stacey's, 
and  was  taken  on  in  the  kitchenware  department. 
I  defy  any  girl  trained  to  handle  kid  gloves  to  learn 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  145 

a  stock  of  agate  ware  in  a  week  and  get  away  with 
it.  I  sold  a  sixty-seven-cent  dishpan  for  a  quarter 
and — well,  the  Wage  Woman's  Home  got  my 
wages  last  night  and  here  I  am  again." 

"That's  a  remarkable  story!"  exclaimed  Pro- 
fessor Syle,  who  had  been  lowering  in  the  shadows. 

"Not  so  very,"  said  Emily  Ray. 

"Would  you  mind  coming  to  the  Pilsen  School 
and  telling  it  to  them  just  as  you've  told  it  to  me  ?" 

"I  didn't  tell  it  to  you,"  replied  Emily,  ever  so 
sweetly.  "But  if  you  want  to  put  it  in  the  Raw 
Deal  I'm  willing  to  write  it  at  regular  rates." 

Comrade  Walter  was  smoking  alone  under  the 
portrait  of  Lenine  when  Rosamonde,  explaining 
that  she  must  dress  for  the  street,  led  her  little  cou- 
sin away  to  the  bedroom. 

"I  wish  I  could  stay  to  help  set  up  the  bed,"  said 
Rosamonde,  ever  ready  to  flee  when  real  work  im- 
pended. "But  I  must  hurry  home  to  dress  for  din- 
ner— Judie  Annister,  you  know." 

"It  must  be  awfully  lonesome  here  after  dark," 
Emily  could  not  help  saying. 

"With  Comrades  Elsa  and  Hattie  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall?  Don't  be  silly,  my  dear.  Just 
knock  on  their  door  and  have  them  take  the  nails 
out." 

"And  that  nut?" 

By  the  gesture  of  Emily's  eyes  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  nut  was  Comrade  Walter. 

"He's  never  here  except  in  the  afternoon.  You 
can't  imagine  how  harmless  he  is." 


146  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Rosa,  you're  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world," 
cried  Emily,  gratitude  overcoming  her  qualms. 
"Have  you  any  money?    I  can  lend  you  enough 

"I've  got  nearly  a  hundred  dollars  in  the  savings 
bank.  I  hocked  everything  I  owned,  you  see." 

Taking  advantage  of  the  momentary  softening 
young  Mrs.  Valiant  asked : 

"Emily,  won't  you  ever  see  Oliver  any  more  ?" 

"Oliver?"  She  stood  back  a  pace  and  asked 
stiffly:  "Why  should  I?" 

"It  seems  too  queer,  Emmy.  You  left  Aunt  Car- 
men because  you  insisted  on  seeing  him,  and  now 
that  you're  free  youVe  absolutely  dropped  him." 

"It's  he  that  did  the  dropping,  I'm  afraid,"  she 
said,  again  using  that  hushed  voice.  "Rosa,  he  as 
much  as  told  me  that  I  was  a  fool,  that  I  was  born 
to  be  a  rich  woman's  niece,  that  I  was  giving  up  all 
my  chances." 

"Well,  we  all  thought  that,  I'm  afraid,"  said  her 
cousin  as  kindly  as  she  could. 

"He  more  than  thought  it.  And  you  know, 
Rosa,  I  can't  entirely  forget  a  terrible  thing  Aunt 
Carmen  once  said." 

"About  Oliver?" 

"She  called  him  a  fortune  hunter." 

"Well,  Emmy,  when  you  live  in  the  world,  as  we 
do" — strange  forgetfulness  of  the  circumambient 
smell  of  Bohemia,  of  the  prophet  of  discontent 
smoking  cheap  cigarettes  under  Lenine's  portrait 
in  the  next  room — "we've  got  to  consider  where 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  147 

our  bread  and  butter's  coming  from.  I  think  you're 
a  bit  proud,  my  dear,  and  imaginative." 

"Why  doesn't  he  marry  Aunt  Carmen?"  asked 
Emily  bitterly. 

"Emmy!" 

"He  knew  she  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  him,  but 
the  moment  I  broke  with  her  he  changed  the  bur- 
den of  his  song." 

So  Rosamonde  kissed  her  good  night  and  went 
forth  with  Professor  Syle,  who  was  escorting  her 
as  far  as  her  car,  conveniently  lurking  on  Fifth 
Avenue. 

"Were  there  ever  more  wonderful  eyes?"  Emily 
thought  she  heard  him  murmur  somewhere  below 
on  the  creaky  stairs.  "And  such  independence  of 
spirit.  Turned  to  the  public  good  what  could  it 
not  accomplish?" 

"Speaking  of  Emily?"  came  Rosamonde's  dis- 
tant, rather  asperate  response. 

Emily  Ray  found  some  cold  spaghetti  in  the  lit- 
tle ice  box,  and  when  she  had  warmed  this  over 
and  made  herself  tea  and  a  slice  of  toast  on  the 
quarter-in-the-slot  gas  range  she  ate  in  solitude 
and  enjoyed  it.  Two  seasons  with  Aunt  Carmen 
had  turned  her  into  a  parasite;  that  she  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge.  The  hard  competition  of 
the  commercial  world  had  sickened  her  of  the  game. 
Here  in  this  Mad  Hatter's  Shop  she  could  make 
herself  useful  enough;  she  could  even  pretend  to 
believe  in  their  ravings  a  little.  What  was  the  dif- 
ference, when  all  was  said?  Surely  it  would  be  less 


148  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

humiliating  than  polite  serfdom  in  Mrs.  Shallope's 
white  palace  at  Plainview. 

After  supper  she  washed  the  dishes,  then  re- 
paired to  her  bedroom  and  set  to  work  assembling 
the  mysterious  skeleton  of  her  iron  bed.  Those 
who  have  tried  this  without  expert  instruction  will 
sympathize.  She  managed,  after  pinching  her  fin- 
gers in  the  socket  of  the  headpiece,  to  get  a  heavy 
side  rail  fixed  in  place ;  but  when  she  sought  to  join 
it  to  the  foot  it  came  loose  at  the  other  end  and 
permitted  the  headpiece  to  descend  with  a  horrible 
crash  to  the  floor.  She  picked  it  up  and,  amidst  a 
weird  clanking  of  iron,  was  starting  all  over  again. 

"You'd  better  let  me  help  you  with  that." 

The  blood  had  gone  to  her  head  when  she 
looked  up  toward  the  voice,  but  it  rushed  rapidly 
back  to  her  heart  after  a  moment's  realization. 
Oliver  Browning,  plump,  young,  wholesome  and 
accusing,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said  coldly;  "I  don't  need 
any  help." 

And  to  prove  her  economic  independence  she 
again  permittted  the  headpiece  to  fall  with  an 
earthquake  roar.  This  time  its  jagged  edge  scraped 
a  yard  of  paper  off  the  wall. 

"Of  course,  you  don't,"  grinned  Oliver,  reach- 
ing for  the  disjointed  sections  and  putting  them 
together  with  marvelous  dexterity.  "Free  women 
never  need  anything." 

"Don't  you  dare  call  me  a  free  woman!"  she 
commanded,  squaring  her  elbows. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  149 

"All  right."  He  had  just  thrown  the  springs  in 
place  with  a  vibrant  crash.  "I  suppose  you're  per- 
fectly happy  here,  far  away  from  the  sinful  rich." 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  come,  Oliver,"  she  informed 
him. 

"No,  but  your  cousin  seems  to  have  a  little  sense 
left  in  spite  of  the  Red  Rag  Sisterhood.  She  rang 
me  up  and  told  me  where  you  were." 

"I  thank  her." 

"And  I've  come  here  to  get  you  out  of  this  den 
and  take  you  back  to — decent  society." 

"That's  almost  insulting,  Oliver.  I'm  alone 
here,  but  I  can  call  for  help." 

"Start  a  Bolsheviki  uprising,  I  suppose?" 

Suddenly  he  sat  down  on  the  crashing  springs 
and  ran  his  fingers  desperately  over  his  forehead 
and  through  his  hair.  Emily  had  always  thought 
of  it  as  nice  hair;  the  sort  she  would  have  liked  to 
stroke,  but  his  wild  attention  rumpled  it  to  a  head- 
dress as  comic  as  any  that  showed  in  the  Pilsen 
School  of  Radical  Culture. 

"Emily,"  he  groaned.  "Poor  little  Emmy! 
Please  forget  the  way  I've  talked.  But  can't  you 
see — can't  you  understand  how  I  feel?" 

"One  style  of  conversation  for  a  drawing-room 
and  another  for  a  studio,  I  suppose." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"About  as  much  as  you  mean  by  that,"  she 
drawled.  Even  then,  standing  with  her  back  to  the 
wall,  her  knees  weak,  she  longed  to  cry  and  beg 
him  be  kind  to  her  and  forgive  and  take  her  away. 


150  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I've  gone  down  in  your  estimation — I'm  poor  and 
— and  I'm  a  criminal." 

"If  you  only  knew  the  world !" 

She  laughed.  Since  her  entrance  into  Utopia 
she  had  twice  been  requested  to  remember  the 
world. 

"Of  course  it  sounds  romantic  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  to  be  free  and  independent  and  wear  cir- 
cus clothes.  But  it's  rot,  I  tell  you.  This  Bol- 
shevik business  isn't  a  philosophy;  it's  a  disease. 
It's  going  through  the  country  like  flu." 

"Rich  people  have  the  flu,  too,"  she  suggested. 

"You'd  be  protected  in  your  aunt's  house. 
She  doesn't  like  me,  but  I'll  give  her  credit  for  one 
thing — she  isn't  flirting  with  these  putrid  Green- 
wich Village  ideas.  You  could  have  stayed  there 
until  I  got  on  my  feet  and  we  could  have " 

"I  can  stay  here  till  you  get  on  your  feet,"  she 
found  herself  arguing,  just  as  though  her  marriage 
with  this  man  were  still  possible. 

"Emily!"  He  had  come  up  bouncing  like  a  rub- 
ber ball.  "You'll  not  stay  here  another  night." 

"Who's  to  prevent  me?"  she  asked,  and  held  on 
to  the  little  iron  bed  as  though  to  an  anchor. 

He  looked  at  her  a  full  minute  with  his  round 
eyes,  which  managed  to  convey  much  melancholy. 

"Oh,  I  won't,"  he  said  quite  gently,  and  turned 
precisely  on  his  heel  to  limp  out  of  the  place. 

She  could  hear  his  retreating  footsteps  through 
the  echoing  studio.  She  heard  the  door  bang 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  151 

resonantly,    then    his   uneven   lame   manls  tramp- 
tramp  down  the  crazy  little  stairs. 

How  deserted  the  place  seemed !  How  it  smelled 
of  smoky  incense  burned  to  false  gods!  The  ill- 
painted  portrait  of  Lenine  gleamed  foggily  by  a 
single  lamp  in  the  big  room.  Beyond  the  partition 
an  unhappy,  fanatical,  nasal  soprano  seemed  to  be 
chanting  forever  the  wrongs  of  humanity.  Emily 
Ray  shuddered  and  turned  to  flee  into  the  street. 
But  where?  After  all  there  was  open  to  her  no 
better  place  than  here. 


XI 


QUITE  aside  from  its  advantages  as  a  paradise 
of  free  board  and  keep  Emily  decided  that  the 
Bolshevist  studio  was  quite  the  most  amusing  sanc- 
tuary she  had  sought  during  the  twenty  wandering 
years  of  her  life.  The  morning  after  her  final  en- 
counter with  her  unworthy  lover  found  her  merry 
as  a  cricket,  bustling  about  Rosamonde's  den  of 
higher  thought  in  the  act  of  appeasing  a  very  hu- 
man hunger.  She  resurrected  bread,  eggs  and 
coffee  from  Comrade  Niki's  neat  kitchen,  and  when 
she  had  converted  these  into  edible  quantities  and 
taken  the  result  to  the  orange-colored  table  in  the 
dining-room  she  pulled  up  an  orange-colored  chair 
and  fell  to  with  a  wholesome  young  appetite. 

She  chuckled  as  she  ate,  and  laughter  helps  the 
digestion.  How  like  Rosamonde  to  have  devised 
this  eminently  artificial  amusement!  What  would 
Merlin  say  to  it  all?  It  was  like  giving  a  spoiled 
child  several  pretty  packages  of  dynamite  to  play 
with.  Would  poor  charming  Rosa  manage  to  blow 
something  up?  Emily,  if  the  truth  were  told,  didn't 
much  care  that  morning.  She  was  weary  unto 
death  of  looking  for  work  and  being  discharged 
and  looking  again.  After  all  she  believed  in  Bol- 
shevism quite  as  much  as  she  believed  in  half  the 

152 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  153 

silly  fads  forced  upon  her  in  Aunt  Carmen's 
gilded  environment.  And  here  was  freedom;  free- 
dom from  the  arrogance  of  self-appointed  superiors 
whether  in  the  Plainview  palace  or  the  Sixth  Ave- 
nue kitchen-ware  department. 

Emily  thought  of  herself  staying  indefinitely 
among  these  queer  fish  from  the  backwaters  of 
Washington  Square.  Orange  furniture,  pinkish 
curtains,  orange  souls,  pinkish  thoughts;  neutral 
tinted  walls  lined  with  futuristic  portraits  of  revo- 
lutionary leaders;  a  brotherhood  and  a  sisterhood 
always  round  her  like  one  big  family  whose  com- 
mon vice  is  that  fatal  drug  of  radicals,  talk. 
Dreaming  over  a  slice  of  toast  and  a  good  cup  of 
coffee,  Emily  had  a  feeling  that  she  had  beaten  the 
world  at  last.  She  pictured  herself  as  living  here, 
pleasantly  drugged  by  strange  combinations  of 
colors  and  ideas.  It  would  be  an  easy  life.  And 
after  a  while  she  would  drift  into  spinsterhood. 

The  studio  door  was  pushed  slowly  open  and 
some  one  entered  without  knocking.  It  was  a  tall 
raw-boned  woman  whose  sallow  cheeks  suggested 
the  spinster  and  the  rumpled  condition  of  whose 
short  hair  and  long  smock  frock  indicated  that  she 
had  slept  in  both  and  made  no  attempt  to  arrange 
them  for  the  day.  In  her  scrawny  right  hand  she 
held  a  teacup,  and  so  absorbed  she  seemed  upon 
her  errand  that  she  never  looked  round  to  observe 
the  girl  at  the  orange  table.  Striding  grimly  ahead 
in  her  shapeless  slippers  she  crossed  the  studio 
room  and  entered  the  kitchen.  The  clatter  of  tin 


154  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

boxes,  the  crumpling  of  paper  bags,  the  rattle  of 
knives  indicated  a  visit  and  search.  Emily  smiled 
again  and  held  her  peace. 

Presently  the  gaunt  specter  of  maidenhood  came 
out  of  the  kitchen,  and  now  she  held  the  teacup  at 
a  careful  angle.  In  her  lean  right  hand  were  two 
eggs  and  under  her  scrawny  elbow  half  a  loaf  of 
bread. 

"You've  forgotten  the  butter,"  said  Emily  in  the 
gentlest  possible  voice. 

Whereupon  the  gaunt  one  gave  a  smothered 
"Oh!"  halted  dead  in  her  tracks  and  dropped  an 

egg- 

"I'm  sorry,"  exclaimed  Emily,  coming  to  the 
rescue  with  a  spoon.  "I  didn't  mean  to  scare  you." 

"I — I  didn't  know "  The  maiden  lady  was 

faltering,  edging  toward  the  door  as  though  to  save 
herself  in  precipitate  flight. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Valiant's  cousin,"  Emily  explained. 
"I'm  staying  here  now." 

"You're  one  of  the  Comrades?"  came  an  acrid 
challenge. 

"I'm  not  sure.    But  won't  you  sit  down?" 

"I'm  Comrade  Elsa,"  said  the  interloper,  and 
somehow  the  explanation  seemed  to  ease  her  con- 
science as  to  the  raw  provisions  she  was  carrying 
away  on  the  communistic  principle. 

"I've  got  some  coffee  made  and  I  can  boil  you 
two  eggs  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  steal  them," 
suggested  Emily  in  a  warm,  sympathetic  tone. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  155 

"I  don't  understand  your  terms,"  snapped  Com- 
rade Elsa. 

"I'm  sorry/'  said  Emily,  although  she  didn't 
look  it. 

"You  must  be  a  capitalist."  This  accusation  was 
dripping  with  scorn. 

"Oh,  thank  you — I  could  kiss  you  for  that!  No- 
body has  hinted  that  for  weeks  and  weeks.  How 
wealthy  it  makes  me  feel !  But  come  on,  I'll  divide 
my  coffee  with  you  and  boil  you  an  egg " 

"No,  thank  you."  Comrade  Elsa  was  ever  so 
stubborn  about  it.  Nevertheless  she  pursed  her 
lips  and  followed  Emily  into  the  dining-room  where 
she  permitted  coffee  to  be  poured  for  her  and  a 
four-minute  egg  to  be  broken  in  a  cup.  The  egg 
that  remained  from  her  looting  she  still  retained 
on  her  side  of  the  table.  Emily  had  a  suspicion 
that  it  was  being  reserved  for  Comrade  Hattie, 
who  dwelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  sealed  door. 

"I'm  an  awful  greenhorn,"  confessed  Emily,  the 
while  she  watched  Comrade  Elsa's  struggles  with  a 
piece  of  toast,  an  event  which  required  skill  be- 
cause several  teeth  were  missing  from  Elsa's  upper 
set. 

"Yes."  Elsa  gnawed  pessimistically.  "But 
you'll  learn." 

"Of  course  I  will,  if  I'm  not  too  stupid." 

"We  have  a  class  for  defective  children  at  the 
Pilsen  School,"  Elsa  assured  her,  and  made  a  great 
noise  with  her  coffee. 

"Are  you  connected  with  the  Pilsen  School?" 


156  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"If  you  ever  went  there  you'd  know  that/' 

"I  suppose  to  free  enlightened  minds  that  ques- 
tion is  as  bad  as  asking  who  was  president  during 
the  Civil  War." 

"The  Civil  War  was  a  capitalist  plot  against  the 
proletariat,"  announced  Elsa,  and  poured  herself 
another  cup  of  coffee. 

"Of  course  it  was,"  said  Emily  soothingly.  In- 
wardly she  was  convulsed.  "Would  you  forgive 
me  for  asking  what  you  teach  at  the  Pilsen 
School?" 

"I  would,"  grunted  Comrade  Elsa  in  a  thin  New 
England  voice. 

"Well,  what  do  you  teach?" 

"Motherhood." 

"Sweet  spirits  of  turpentine !"  Emily  hadn't  in- 
tended to  giggle,  but  her  disturbing  trill  echoed 
through  Rosamonde's  temple  of  reason. 

"Is  that  necessary?"  It  looked  as  though  Elsa 
were  about  to  hurl  her  cup. 

"I  suppose  not.  But  if  we  stuck  to  things  that 
were  necessary  lots  of  our  noble  institutions  would 
go  out  of  business.  How  many  children  have  you, 
Comrade  Elsa?" 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  The  Com- 
rade set  her  cup  down  with  a  bang. 

"Oh,  nothing— maybe." 

"Nothing — less  than  nothing!  The  very  proc- 
esses of  motherhood  unfit  the  mother  to  know  the 
child.  The  mother's  emotional  nature  is  over- 
developed, her  judgment  cramped,  her  vision  nar- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 157 

rowed.  The  childless  individual  occupies  a  supe- 
rior altitude  whereby  the  child  may  be  studied  in 
the  light  of  synthetic  analysis." 

"Synthetic  children!"  gasped  Emily. 

"I  didn't  say  synthetic  children!"  snapped  her 
new-found  comrade. 

"Of  course  not.  I  suppose  the  altitude  you  speak 
of  helps  you  to  teach  the  children  how  to  wash 
above  their  wrists  and  how  not  to  mark  up  the 
woodwork  and  not  to  play  with  the  gas  log  and 
how  to  say  their  prayers  and  how  to  eat  their  cereal 
without  getting  it  all  over  the  rug  and  how  not  to 
chew  the  soap  when  they're  being  bathed " 

"It  teaches  no  such  thing."  Comrade  Elsa  arose 
and  began  gathering  unto  herself  the  raw  egg,  the 
half  loaf  and  the  cup  of  ground  coffee.  "The  chil- 
dren of  the  Pilsen  School  are  not  concerned  with 
cereal  food  and — and  soap."  The  last  word  was 
shot  out  like  a  deadly  projectile. 

"Well,  what  are  they  concerned  with?" 

"The  psychology  of  discontent." 

"My  word!  I  didn't  know  you  had  to  send  a 
child  to  school  to  learn  discontent." 

"Quite  to  the  contrary.  Scientific  discontent  is 
all-important  in  the  growth  of  the  coming  race. 
The  Pilsen  School  is,  you  might  say,  a  college  of 
discontent.  From  the  kindergarten  classes  to  the 
post-graduate  courses  discontent  in  all  its  branches 
is  taught.  Otherwise  the  revolution  could  never 
be." 

"I  suppose  not,"  agreed  Emily  rather  weakly. 


158  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"You'll  learn  about  us  in  time,"  Comrade  Elsa 
rather  patronizingly  assured  her  as  she  retreated 
toward  the  door. 

"I  think  I'm  beginning  to  get  you  already,"  sang 
out  Emily,  and  managed  to  maintain  her  calm. 

Emily  had  scarcely  washed  the  dishes  and 
smoothed  her  hair  to  a  most  un-Bolshevik  smooth- 
ness than  a  gentle  tapping  at  the  door  announced 
another  visitor.  This  time  it  was  Professor  Syle, 
and  the  look  upon  his  auburn  countenance  assured 
her  that  he  had  called  to  see  her  and  none  other. 
However,  he  betrayed  a  tendency  to  temporize, 
which  was  slightly  out  of  key  in  the  home  of  truth. 

"Comrade  Rosamonde  promised  to  come  down 
early  and  finish  arrangements  for  the  soviet  dinner 
to-morrow  night,"  he  began  smoothly. 

"I  seldom  knew  her  to  get  up  before  noon,"  an- 
nounced Emily,  who  had  an  instinct  to  disagree 
with  everything  he  said. 

"You  would  be  surprised  what  emancipation  has 
done  for  her,"  he  smiled.  "She  is  often  down  by 
eleven  o'clock." 

"Even  peace  has  its  soldiers,"  said  Emily.  "It's 
now  about  half -past  ten." 

"Just  time  for  a  talk."  He  settled  himself  easily 
on  the  self-made  divan  and  motioned  her  to  a  place 
beside  him.  Instead  she  pulled  out  another  one  of 
those  orange  chairs. 

"About  this  dinner  party  you're  going  to  give 
my  Aunt  Carmen — Mrs.  Shallope.  What's  pos- 
sessed the  old  girl?  She's  spent  her  happy  child- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  159 

hood  shooting  down  the  lower  classes  in  squads 
and  platoons.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  amuse 
her?" 

"She  will  be  a  very  valuable  convert,"  he  sol- 
emnly informed  Emily.  "And  she  is  now  on  the 
brink  of  conversion.  Comrade  Rosamonde  warned 
me  that  we  must  stress  the  picturesque  side  of  our 
cause  in  order  to "  He  hesitated  for  a  word. 

"I  know.    She's  crazy  about  vaudeville." 

"We  are  making  this  soviet  of  Soviets  an  occa- 
sion to  introduce  to  this  country  Corporal  Anna 
Fishkoff." 

"Corporal  Anna  Fishkoff?"  echoed  Emily,  her- 
self not  averse  to  a  little  vaudeville. 

"Of  course  you've  heard  of  her — she  fought  with 
the  Russian  Battalion  of  Death,  you  remember." 

"Naturally." 

There  fell  a  pause  during  which  Comrade  Wal- 
ter regarded  her  with  the  same  eyes  he  had  but  last 
night  devoted  to  her  cousin. 

"Comrade  Emily,"  he  began,  "if  you  are  to  be- 
come one  of  us  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  receive 
a  little  preliminary  instruction." 

"Who  ever  said  I  was  going  to  become  one  of 
you?"  she  asked  pertly. 

"Oh,  but,  of  course,  you  will " 

"Fve  seen  one  of  you,  just  now,"  she  resumed, 
"and  I  think  she's  a  nut." 

"Who  was  that?" 

She  was  longing  to  stir  him  to  a  frenzy  just  as 
she  had  stirred  the  recent  comrade  of  the  raw  egg. 


160  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

However,  considering  his  controlled  features  and 
generally  repressed  demeanor  she  concluded  that 
he  would  be  somewhat  more  difficult  to  handle. 

"Elsa  she  called  herself.  I  suppose  she's  got  an- 
other name  somewhere  out  in  the  great  wicked 
world." 

"Poor  Comrade  Elsa !"  sighed  the  Professor,  but 
did  not  explain  his  sigh. 

"But  with  you,"  he  added,  flushing  to  a  bright 
strawberry,  "it  will  be  different.  You  are  very 
pretty,  my  dear — in  many  ways  beautiful.  You 
can  exert  a  great  power  in  our  midst." 

Had  Emily  regarded  him  as  anything  but  a  man 
of  theories  this  avowal  might  have  alarmed  her. 
As  it  was  it  filled  her  with  ecstatic  amusement.  It 
would  be  immensely  diverting  to  have  this  super- 
human, subnormal  person  capering  back  and  forth 
at  her  behest.  Then  she  thought,  not  without  ran- 
cor, of  Oliver  Browning.  After  all  Emily  was  a 
frivolous  Ray  at  heart. 

"With  the  great  weight  of  the  laboring  masses 
on  your  shoulders — and  I  guess  they  must  weigh 
a  powerful  lot — have  you  come  all  the  way  here  to 
tell  me  I'm  a  pretty  girl  and  in  many  ways  beauti- 
ful?" she  quizzed  him  with  her  penetrating  gray 
eyes. 

"Ah,  but  Miss  Ray — Comrade  Emily "  For 

the  first  time  in  his  public  career,  possibly,  Pro- 
fessor Syle  lost  the  power  of  speech. 

"Because  if  you  have  you've  taken  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  do  a  very  commonplace  thing.  You 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  161 

know  when  I  was  out  on  Long  Island  living  with 
the  sinful  rich  I  used  to  have  college  boys  tell  me 
that  almost  every  night.  They  did  it  a  great  deal 
better  than  you  do.  Practice,  you  know.  Just  the 
way  you  have  learned  to  make  dynamite  beautiful 
by  talking  about  it  over  and  over  again." 

"You  haven't  come  here  to  make  fun  of  the 
Cause!"  he  gasped,  reddening  a  still  deeper  straw- 
berry. 

"Oh,  nothing  so  ambitious  as  that.  I'm  here  for 
the  same  reason  that  a  lot  of  Comrades  are  here." 

"What's  that?" 

"Free  lunch,"  said  Emily. 

Comrade  Walter  studied  her  a  long  time.  His 
face  gradually  paled  back  to  its  natural  straw- 
color. 

"By  Jove,"  he  murmured,  "you  are  wonderful!" 

"The  college  boys  used  to  tell  me  that,  too,  nearly 
every  night  when  Aunt  Carmen  was  giving  a 
party." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  agreed  in  his  abstracted  tone. 
"You  are  one  of  that  family,  aren't  you?  Com- 
rade  Carmen,"  he  added  in  a  more  sprightly  man- 
ner, "is  a  remarkable  acquisition  to  our  cause." 

"Isn't  she!"  exclaimed  Emily.  "And  what  in 
the  world  do  you  think  her  game  is?" 

"The  trouble  with  you  capitalists  is,"  he  ex- 
plained, coming  back  to  his  pedantic  style,  "that 
you  express  everything  in  the  terms  of  sport.  You 
would  think  that  the  world  revolution  were  a  game 
of  tennis." 


162  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Isn't  it?"  she  asked,  opening  her  eyes  wide. 
She  was  now  sure  that  Comrade  Walter  would  be 
worth  cultivating. 

"Wonderful!"  he  whispered,  and  looked  at  her 
again  long  and  feelingly. 

The  pause  became  embarrassing,  because  it  was 
only  while  he  was  talking  that  she  could  think  of 
something  to  say  back. 

"Comrade,"  he  said  at  last  in  his  best  platform 
voice,  "there  is  a  phase  in  the  process  of  our  race 
development  which  I  confess  puzzles  me." 

"Don't  admit  it  in  your  lectures,"  she  warned 
him,  "or  you'll  lose  your  job." 

"Wonderful!"  he  exclaimed  again,  then:  "The 
personal  quantity  as  opposed  to  the  impersonal 
mass.  We  who  are  in  the  advance  guard  of  prog- 
ress have  trained  ourselves  to  think  in  large  num- 
bers, I  confess,  and  to  neglect  the  personal  or— • 
more  strictly  speaking — the  human  quantity.  In 
arranging  a  program  for  the  entire  human  race 
there  is  a  danger  of  overlooking  the  relations,  say, 
which  exist  between  two  actors  in  the  great  drama, 
a  man  and  a  woman." 

"I  suppose  that  means  in  plain  United  States 
that  you  are  going  to  tell  me  the  story  of  your 
life." 

"The  story  of  my  life,"  he  admitted  modestly, 
"is  the  story  of  the  human  race." 

"Of  course.    How  stupid  of  me!" 

He  had  been  cocking  one  of  his  auburn  eyes 
toward  the  hundred-and-fifty-dollar  futurist  por- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  163 

trait  of  Lenine,  but  abruptly  he  sighted  his  eye- 
glasses upon  Emily  Ray. 

"Your  cousin,  Comrade  Rosamonde,  is,  I  should 
say,  a  peculiar  convert.  Capitalistic  luxury  has  so 
surrounded  her  that  she  is  unable  to  view  the  world 
revolution  in  its  true  perspective." 

"Have  you  guessed  it?"  She  was  beginning  to 
consider  Comrade  Walter  a  cleverer  man  than  she 
had  at  first  thought. 

"She  has  done  much  noble  work  and  will  do 
more.  But  she  has — due  to  her  inexperience  in  the 
great  human  drama — made  a  natural  mistake.  She 
has  fallen  in  love  with  me." 

"Of  course,"  said  Emily,  narrowing  her  eyes. 
"That  would  be  natural." 

"But  the  circumstances  under  which  I  work  have 
made  such  an  alliance  impossible.  In  the  first  place, 
the  interference  of  her  bourgeois  husband " 

"Has  she  ever  confessed  her  hopeless  passion  for 
you?"  asked  Emily  Ray,  drawing  down  her  upper 
lip  and  folding  her  hands. 

"Not  directly,  but  a  thousand  indications  have 
convinced  me  of  her  state  of  mind.  How  other- 
wise would  she  have  quit  her  plutocratic  home  to 
take  up  quarters  here?  How  otherwise  would  she 
have  followed  me  in  my  lectures  among  people 
who,  I  am  sure,  are  physically  repulsive  to  one  of 
her  tender  rearing?" 

"How  otherwise?"  echoed  Emily,  still  holding 
that  look. 

"And  my  agony  of  mind — purely  humanitarian 


164  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

— has  been  most  aggravating,  most  injurious  to 
my  work.  I  could  see  in  her  a  fine  woman  reared 
under  a  false  system  and  turning  to  me  as  a  beacon 
light  in  a  new  era."  Suddenly  Comrade  Walter 
snapped  his  fingers.  "But  it  is  impossible.  And 
until  you  came " 

"What's  the  idea  about  my  coming?"  asked 
Emily,  intrigued  by  this  Mad  Hatter's  confession. 

"I  had  no  idea  where  to  turn.  But  you  can 
clarify  it  all." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.    But  how,  please?" 

"By  marrying  me." 

Emily  whistled,  a  long,  annoying  and  unmaiden- 
ly  whistle. 

"Perhaps,  being  uninitiated,  you  think  me  pe- 
culiar," he  fumbled. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  she  said.  "I  have  met  some 
like  you  on  Long  Island.  Only  we  call  them  fast 
workers  out  there." 

"But  you  haven't  answered  me " 

Professor  Syle  was  leaning  far  forward  when 
the  door  opened  and  Rosamonde  Valiant  came  in. 
Her  cheeks  were  rosy  from  her  walk  down  from 
Fifth  Avenue.  That  might  have  accounted  for  her 
high  coloring. 

"Comrade  Rosamonde!"  cried  Syle,  rising 
hastily. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you're  here,"  said  Rosa,  look- 
ing swiftly  toward  her  cousin.  "I've  ordered  six 
gallons  of  claret  and  twelve  cases  of  beer — do  you 
think  that  will  be  enough?  Merlin  has  some  won- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  165 

derful  champagne  in  the  cellar,  but  he  went  away 
and  took  the  keys  with  him." 

"That  will  be  enough,  I'm  sure,"  said  Comrade 
Walter,  standing  stiffly  at  attention. 

"Have  you  seen  that  Jennie  Fishcake — you  know, 
the  Battalion  of  Death  woman?" 

"Corporal  Anna  Fishkoff?"  corrected  Syle  with 
dignity.  "She  will  be  delighted  to  come." 

As  the  luncheon  hour  approached  and  Comrade 
Niki,  frenzied  by  kitchen  work,  was  shouting  his 
samurai-socialist  ditty  in  his  galley,  Rosamonde 
took  her  cousin  to  one  side,  and  holding  her  hand 
with  more  than  usual  affection  said: 

"Emmy,  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  me  a  favor?" 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for,  dear,"  announced  the 
poor  relation. 

"Comrade  Walter — I  think  he's  got  the  heart  of 
a  hero,  I  really  do.  He  keeps  his  great  brain  going 
all  the  time  and  never  thinks  of  himself.  But  he's 
awfully — idealistic." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that." 

"Well,  weVe  been  thrown  together  in  such  a  way 
— he's  not  used  to  the  world — our  world.  And  I'm 
afraid "  She  hesitated. 

"That  he's  getting  fond  of  you?" 

"Well,  I  think  so.  He  follows  me  round  all  the 
time.  Of  course  I  like  it.  But  then  there's  Merlin. 
He'll  be  back  next  week,  I  suppose;  and  I  simply 
can't  have  Comrade  Walter  telephoning  and  asking 


166  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

r*^"^**'"™''*''^^"^^^^^™™'"^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^™^^^^^^^™"^^^™^^^^™^ 

to  call  at  the  house.  Won't  you  be  a  good  sport, 
dear,  and " 

'Take  him  off  your  hands?" 

"Well,  yes.  I  don't  think  he's  the  sort  that  for- 
gets a  great  love  very  soon.  But  you're  so  pretty 
and  charming,  Emmy,  and  I'm  sure  you  could 
divert  him." 

"And  he  might  even  propose  to  me,"  suggested 
Emily. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  he'd  do  that,"  replied  her 
cousin  reassuringly,  speaking  as  though  her  mind 
were  only  half  on  the  subject.  "Don't  you  think 
it  would  be  amusing  to  have  red  lanterns  strung 
from  the  ceiling  and  red  candles  to  give  the  dinner 
a  regular — you  know — Russian  flavor?" 

And  Emily  went  to  work,  surer  than  ever  that 
Alice  could  have  gone  no  deeper  into  Wonderland. 
Her  Wonderland  theory  developed  as  the  day  wore 
on,  for  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  when  men 
came  with  the  claret  and  beer  charged  to  Merlin 
Valiant's  account,  Rosamonde  had  a  thought. 

"Merlin  will  see  the  bill  and  ask  what  it's  all 
about  and  there  would  be  no  end  of  a  scene,"  she 
parleyed.  "But  I've  come  here  without  a  cent. 
My  man,  will  you  call  for  the  money  to-morrow?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  decreed  the  one  whom  she  had 
addressed  as  Her  Man.  "You'll  either  have  to  pay 
now  or  let  it  go  on  the  bill." 

"Don't  be  impertinent,"  said  Rosamonde,  then 
appealed  to  Emily. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 167 

"My  money's  all  in  the  bank,"  said  the  poor 
cousin. 

"Won't  you  take  a  check,  my  man  ?"  asked  Rosa- 
monde. 

She  hesitated  and  looked  helplessly  round  as 
though  she  were  going  to  cry.  At  the  instant  Pro- 
fessor Syle,  fresh  from  a  lecture,  came  in,  an  act 
of  Providence. 

"We're  comin'  round  this  way  again  at  five, 
lady,"  suggested  Her  Man. 

"And  in  the  meantime  you  can  get  a  check  cashed 
somewhere,"  Emily  brought  in  her  consolation. 

"The  banks  are  all  closed,"  said  Rosamonde. 
"Haven't  you  any  credit  round  the  neighborhood, 
Comrade  Walter?" 

"The  school  sometimes  has  some,"  volunteered 
Walter  Scott  Syle,  coming  out  of  a  cloud  and  going 
back  again  at  once. 

"Well,  do  you  think  you'd  have  time  to •" 

"I'll  go!"  suggested  Emily,  mostly  because  she 
wanted  to  see  the  Pilsen  School  of  Radical  Cul- 
ture. 

So  without  protest  from  Comrade  Walter  she 
took  the  check  and  walked  demurely  to  the 
Pilsen  School  which  rears  its  discontented  head 
among  the  fire  escapes  of  a  sweatshop  section  not 
far  from  lower  Fifth  Avenue.  Emily  found  the 
entrance  hall  to  freedom  rather  a  drabby,  drafty 
place,  whose  walls  were  lined  with  cards,  bulletins 
and  scraps  of  paper  announcing  everything  from  a 
militant-suffrage  protest  mass  meeting  to  a  Dance 


168  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

of  the  Cooties  in  Beersteiner's  Hall.  It  looked  as 
though  anybody  with  a  thumb  tack,  a  sheet  of  paper 
and  an  idea  could  find  free  wall  space  here.  In 
one  comprehensive  glance  she  saw  advertisements 
for  a  number  of  things  including  "The  Anarch  at 
Home,"  a  lecture  course  on  Maximilism  in  Japan,  a 
people's  series  of  Free  Art  Dancing  and  a  pearl- 
handled  penknife  lost  in  the  reading  room  on  Fri- 
day night.  A  more  dignified  printed  sign,  centered 
in  this  chaos,  announced :  "Professor  Walter  Scott 
Syle,  Monday  3:30.  Topic:  Hallucinations  of 
Power." 

Spectacled  persons  laden  with  discontented  liter- 
ature hurried  out  of  lecture  rooms.  Several  beetle- 
browed,  stubby  girls  stood  by  the  elevator  flirting 
with  an  equal  number  of  stubby,  beetle-browed 
men. 

"Why  ain't  you  strikin'  this  week,  Sadie?"  asked 
one  of  the  men  coyly. 

"Gotta  work  some  time,  ain't  I  ?"  retorted  Sadie 
in  a  kittenish  tone  of  voice.  Which  was  considered 
a  great  joke  in  the  Pilsen  School  apparently,  for 
the  bare  hall  echoed  with  giggles. 

"I'll  betcha  the  sodas  the  button  molders  walk 
out  before  Sat'day,"  challenged  the  youngest  of  the 
swains. 

Youth  will  be  served,  whether  downtrodden  or 
uplifted ! 

Beyond  the  busy  bookseller's  shop  Emily  found 
a  den  marked  "Treasurer,"  so  she  entered  to  face 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 169 

a  beady-eyed,  hawk- featured  female  who  sat 
thumbing  yellow  vouchers. 

"Can  I  cash  a  check?"  asked  Emily,  feeling  that 
in  this  home  of  fellowship  such  a  question  would 
be  all  but  superfluous. 

"Identified?"  drawled  the  treasurer  suspiciously. 

"Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle  sent  me." 

"Sorry,"  said  the  maiden  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"Cash  is  closed  for  the  day." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Emily. 

"Not  at  all,"  whined  the  altruist,  looking  the  in- 
truder over  as  if  in  search  of  hidden  arms. 

When  Emily  got  back  to  Pomander  Place  with 
the  ill  tidings  she  found  Comrade  Walter  still  lec- 
turing while  the  ladies  did  the  work  of  decorating. 

"The  treasurer  wouldn't  give  me  any  money," 
complained  Emily. 

"I  thought  he  wouldn't,"  declared  Syle,  cheerful 
as  one  who  had  proved  a  point. 

"Look  here,  Comrade  Walter,"  commanded 
Rosamonde.  "I've  got  to  keep  Emily  here  to  help. 
But  I  know  where  you  can  get  some  money.  Just 
go  down  to  my  husband's  office " 

"And  meet  your  husband?" 

"Oh,  no,  he's  in  California.  But  I'll  make  you 
out  a  check  and  give  you  a  note  to  Mr.  Steeley,  the 
cashier.  He's  a  dear.  And  you  can  take  my  car — 
it's  waiting  at  Twelfth  Street  and  the  Avenue." 

"The  liquor  man  will  be  back  at  five,"  whined 
Comrade  Elsa,  like  the  bird  of  ill  omen  that  she 
was. 


170  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

So  Professor  Syle  stood  attention  while  the 
woman  who  was  either  in  love  with  him  or  not, 
according  to  how  you  looked  at  it,  wrote  a  polite 
note  to  Mr.  Steeley  explaining  that  a  check  would 
be  borne  by  Professor  Syle  and  should  be  cashed. 
Then  she  made  out  another  check  for  fifteen  dol- 
lars more  than  she  would  need,  the  addition  being  a 
matter  of  habit 


XII 


ONE  of  the  many  peculiarities  of  Bolshevikia,  as 
Emily  found  after  three  days'  residence  there,  was 
that  everything  was  run  by  a  program  and  that  no 
program  ever  went  through.  Two  hours  before  the 
soviet  dinner  she  had  about  made  up  her  mind  that 
this  particular  program  was  destined  to  blow  itself 
up  or  disappear  into  thin  air  on  the  eve  of  con- 
summation. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Rosamonde  had  ordered 
regardless,  as  the  saying  goes.  It  was  all  for  Aunt 
Carmen.  The  Comrades  could  stand  Washington 
Square  food,  even  liked  it;  but  anybody  who  knew 
Aunt  Carmen  knew  just  how  long  that  great  lady 
would  stick  by  any  cause  whose  cuisine  was  under 
par.  Therefore  the  spaghetti — for  spaghetti  it 
must  be — was  ordered  from  Tanquay's  at  Tan- 
quay's  prices;  soup,  fish,  game  and  sweets  were  to 
be  imported  into  Bolshevikia  from  the  same  fash- 
ionable establishment.  The  viands  would  arrive, 
neatly  packed,  at  a  late  hour  in  the  afternoon.  But 
at  the  hour  of  six  Hitch  Number  One  loomed  large 
upon  the  horizon. 

The  dinner  had  not  come.  Emily  had  telephoned 
from  a  drug  store  round  the  corner,  to  be  informed 
by  Tanquay's  that  the  goods  had  been  sent  and 
must  be  there;  the  voice  over  the  wire  washed  its 

171 


172  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

hands — mixed  metaphorically  speaking — of  the  af- 
fair. So  Emily  hurried  back  to  the  studio  with  the 
ill  tidings,  only  to  find  Hitch  Number  Two  sitting 
on  the  divan  in  the  person  of  Professor  Walter 
Scott  Syle.  The  Professor  was  scratching  his 
thoughtful  brow  while  Rosamonde,  clad  in  the  Bol- 
shevikest  of  her  village-made  costumes — a  checker- 
board tunic  with  apple  green  Turkish  trousers — 
stood  by  the  window,  her  back  turned. 

"Tanquay  says  he  sent  the  things  two  hours 
ago,"  announced  Emily. 

"They  haven't  come,"  replied  the  doleful  Rosa- 
monde. 

"Well,  we  can  raise  fifty  cents  and  get  some 
more,"  suggested  cheerful  Emily.  She  wasn't 
to  be  permitted  to  come  to  the  dinner  and  face  Aunt 
Carmen,  therefore  the  calamity  seemed  of  minor 
importance. 

"Yes,"  said  Rosamonde  abstractedly. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?"  asked  her 
cousin,  sensing  something  deeper  than  mere  physi- 
cal drouth. 

Rosamonde  wheeled  suddenly: 

"That  Battalion  of  Death  woman " 

"Corporal  Anna  Fishkoff,"  supplied  Syle  in  a 
graveyard  voice.  "She  isn't  coming." 

"Is  that  the  end  of  the  world?"  inquired  Emily. 

"It's  the  end  of  Aunt  Carmen,"  moaned  Rosa- 
monde. "We  promised  to  have  Anna  Fishkoff 
here.  If  she  doesn't  come  Aunt  Carmen  will  get 
mad  and  go  home.  I  know  her." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  173 

"It  won't  wreck  the  cause  of  freedom  if  Aunt 
Carmen  quits,  will  it?" 

"Most  certainly  not,"  snapped  Comrade  Walter, 
but  his  quick  denial  plainly  announced  that  he  had 
his  reasons  for  wooing  Aunt  Carmen. 

"Professor  Syle  wants  to  make  a  lot  of  converts 
among  the  upper  classes,"  Rosamonde  was  admit- 
ting when  Emily  broke  in. 

"With  that  get-up  you  might  pass  as  a  major- 
general  in  the  Turkish  Battalion  of  Death." 

"Of  course  I  might,"  replied  Rosamonde,  appar- 
ently tickled  in  her  sense  of  the  dramatic.  "I  might 
if  it  were  anybody  but  Aunt  Carmen." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  commanded  the  great 
master  of  nonsense,  rumpling  his  pinkish  hair. 

"Emily,  dear,"  asked  her  cousin  in  the  sweetest 
possible  voice,  "I've  got  thirteen  dollars  and  a  half 
left.  It  won't  buy  all  I  wanted  to  have,  but  you 
might  run  round  the  corner  to  Raffaeli's  and  get 
that  much  spaghetti.  Will  you?" 

Automatically — for  her  mind  was  far  away  from 
spaghetti  Neapolitane — Emily  took  the  money  and 
disappeared  among  the  gathering  shadows  of  Po- 
mander Place.  She  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  along 
the  toy  sidewalk  leading  toward  the  frowning 
building  with  the  high  clock  tower  when  a  door 
above  one  of  the  quaint  porches  opened  and  a  man 
appeared,  a  bulky  silhouette  in  a  patch  of  light.  In 
either  hand  he  carried  a  large  metal  container. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  sang  out  as  she  passed. 


174  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Speaking  to  me?"  She  paused,  ready  upon 
alarm  to  run  back  to  the  safety  of  number  eighteen. 

"Did  you  people  in  number  eighteen  lose  some 
stuff  from  Tanquay's?" 

"I  should  say  we  did!"  cried  Emily,  and  on  the 
impulse  she  ran  up  the  steps  as  if  to  snatch  the 
cans  from  robber  hands.  In  the  patch  of  light  she 
got  a  look  at  the  man's  face  in  the  overhead  glare. 
It  was  Oliver  Browning. 

"I  suppose  the  mistake  was  natural  down  here 
where  nothing  hits  just  right,"  he  was  saying  with 
his  trace  of  a  Virginian  drawl.  "You  see  your 
number  is  eighteen  and  mine  is  eight " 

"Your  number!"  she  gasped. 

"My  own.  I  moved  into  furnished  rooms  last 
night." 

She  had  a  feeling  that  she  shouldn't  speak  to 
him,  but  instead  she  laughed: 

"Oliver  Browning,  what  right  have  you  to  move 
into  my  alley?" 

"I  say,  Miss  Emily,"  he  drawled,  "don't  you 
think  that  a  sort  of  capitalistic  way  to  talk  down 
here?  Suppose  the  Comrades " 

"Aren't  you  going  to  let  me  have  my  dinner?" 

"Your  dinner?  Girl,  girl!"  Despite  her  out- 
reaching  hand  he  still  held  on  to  the  tin  boxes. 
"Even  out  in  the  big  wicked  world  they  wouldn't 
be  yours  until  they  were  delivered." 

He  stood  there  with  a  broad  smile  which  some- 
how made  Emily  regret  that  he  was  what  she  knew 
him  to  be. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  175 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  choose  this  place?" 
she  found  herself  asking. 

"Oh,  I  have  a  reason,"  he  replied,  intimating 
that  she  had  none.  "Down  here  it's  much  more 
convenient  to  the  horse  marts  than  uptown — just  a 
short  ride  on  the  Eighth  Avenue  line  and  transfer 
at  Third " 

"Is  that  your  true  reason?"  She  eyed  him 
closely. 

"The  truest  reason  you'll  find  in  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage." 

In  her  feminine  heart  of  hearts  she  wished  that 
he  had  admitted  that  he  had  come  to  look  after 
her;  but  instead  he  grinned  teasingly,  as  he  stood 
there,  his  arms  stretched  taut  with  their  freight  of 
expensive  food. 

"If  you  don't  let  me  have  it,"  she  pleaded,  reach- 
ing again,  "it'll  be  late  for  the  dinner." 

"Good  Lord!"  She  was  afraid  he  was  going 
again  to  indulge  in  the  tirade  against  all  radicals. 
Instead  he  maintained  his  amused  demeanor. 
"Are  the  Brethren  holding  a  powwow?" 

"Rosamonde's  giving  it  for  Aunt  Carmen,"  she 
explained.  "She's  a  convert,  you  know." 

"Wow!"  Oliver  nearly  dropped  his  right-hand 
burden  and  she  had  almost  recovered  it  when  he 
ceased  to  bellow  and  again  clutched  it  tight.  "Aunt 
Carmen !" 

"Is  that  so  strange?"  she  asked,  trying  to  remain 
cool. 

"Nothing's    strange    down   here    except    sanity. 


176  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Whoops!  For  a  nickel  I'd  put  on  a  German  tunic 
and  mix  in  with  the  fun.  A  German  tunic  would 
take  you  anywhere  down  here." 

"Oliver!"  she  fairly  screamed.  "Have  you  got 
one?" 

"A  German  tunic?"  he  supplied.  "Sure,  I've  got 
one.  Brought  it  home  in  a  paper  bag.  Like  to 
seek?" 

"Would  you  lend  it  to  me,  Oliver?" 

"What  do  you  want  with  it  ?"  His  voice  grew  a 
trifle  stern. 

"It  won't  look  very  German,"  she  earnestly  in- 
formed him.  "And  it  will  do  a  lot  of  good.  Please, 
Oliver!  If  you'll  lend  it  to  me  I'll  let  you  come  to 
the  party."  " 


XIII 

DRESSING  excitedly  behind  a  curtain  Emily  spied 
upon  the  early  scenes  of  the  drama  enacted  con- 
veniently in  front  of  her  bedroom  door.  Aunt  Car- 
men was  apparently  as  eager  to  be  at  the  dinner  as 
her  niece  was  to  have  her,  for  she  knocked  at  the 
studio  door  full  ten  minutes  before  any  of  the 
habitues  arrived.  Comrade  Niki  was  in  the  kitchen 
singing  his  samurai  psalm  of  socialism  and  Com- 
rade Timothy  was  on  a  stepladder  hanging  a 
framed  bit  of  the  Russian  Soviet  Constitution  over 
the  portrait  of  Lenine. 

Aunt  Carmen's  appearance  was  that  of  a  Bur- 
mese queen;  from  head  to  foot  she  blazed  with  the 
family  jewels — a  phenomenon  which  would  not 
have  been  considered  phenomenal  in  the  drawing- 
rooms  which  she  frequented.  But  in  the  dim 
candlelight  of  the  Pomander  Place  studio  the  effect 
was  that  of  a  walking  Christmas  tree,  color  glint- 
ing from  a  thousand  baubles. 

"Rosa!"  cried  the  old  lady,  panting  as  she  came 
in,  "couldn't  you  have  chosen  a  Bolshevist  apart- 
ment house  where  they  have  an  elevator?" 

"The  stairs  are  trying,"  admitted  Rosamonde, 
kissing  her  amiable  relative.  She  was  inwardly 
agitated  because  she  had  no  idea  how  the  entertain- 
ment was  to  proceed  after  its  sudden  readjustment. 

177 


178  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do !"  cried  Carmen,  looking  up 
at  the  professor,  who  began  a  deferential  down- 
scrambling.  "What's  that  motto  you  have  there?" 

"It  is  in  Russian/'  replied  the  pedant,  "and  is  a 
paragraph  from  the  Soviet  Constitution  dealing 
with  the  proletarian  rights  to  the  land." 

"I'm  sure  it's  lovely,"  decreed  Aunt  Carmen,  giv- 
ing the  framed  text  a  stare  through  her  lorgnon. 
Then  to  Rosamonde: 

"Dear,  how  well  you  look  in  your  Bolshevist  cos- 
tume. Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Ready-made  in  a  Village  shop,"  explained 
Rosamonde,  considering  her  aunt's  surfeit  of  gems. 

"I  have  ordered  three  at  Bleriot's,"  said  Carmen, 
"but  the  old  thing  is  never  on  time  any  more. 
Labor  troubles — aren't  they  annoying?  Will  this 
gown  be  out  of  place,  do  you  think?" 

"Well,  no "  began  Rosa,  whereupon  Profes- 
sor Syle  cut  in. 

"Comrade  Carmen,  would  you  forgive  a  sugges- 
tion?" 

"Why  certainly."  It  always  pleased  her  into 
dimples  to  be  called  Comrade  by  Comrade  Walter. 

"The  matter  of  jewelry " 

"Ah." 

Involuntarily  she  laid  her  hand  on  a  diamond 
and  platinum  brooch  which  seemed  to  guard  her 
like  a  small  piece  of  armor.  Her  ringers  flashed 
with  the  gesture. 

"Comrade  Alfonzo — he's  Mexican,  you  know, 
and  a  Primitive — seriously  objects  to  jewels." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  179 

"I  thought  socialists  never  objected  to  anything 
so  long  so  you  agreed  with  them/'  said  Carmen, 
pouting  like  a  child. 

"It  should  not  be  regarded  as  a  curtailment  of 
your  freedom  of  thought,"  Syle  was  quick  to  show 
her.  "But  the  wearing  of  jewelry,  according  to 
Comrade  Alfonzo's  belief — I  don't  say  I  agree  with 
him — is  in  the  nature  of  an  economic  wrong  to  the 
laboring  masses." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  replied  old  Carmen  rather  haught- 
ily. "Then  you  want  me  to  take  them  off?" 

"You  look  awfully  sweet,"  Rosamonde  inter- 
polated. 

"It's  merely  Comrade  Alfonzo  I'm  thinking 
about.  He  has  a  way  of  attacking  the  plutocracy 
which  is  peculiar  to  the  school  of  Villa." 

Already  Carmen  was  unbuckling  the  armor  plate 
of  platinum  and  diamonds. 

"But  what  can  I  do  with  them?"  she  asked  help- 
lessly. "I  don't  suppose  there  is  anything  like  a 
safe-deposit  box  or " 

"There's  a  dear!"  said  Rosamonde  soothingly. 
"Why  not  put  them  all  in  your  hand  bag  and  wear 
the  bag  on  your  wrist  during  dinner." 

Cleopatra  never  shed  a  weightier  collection  than 
was  removed  from  Carmen's  scrawny  person  and 
went  clattering  into  Carmen's  large  and  rosy  hand- 
bag. 

"You  should  have  told  me,  my  dear,"  she  said 
chidingly  to  Rosamonde,  the  latter  already  stiff 
with  fear  of  that  which  was  to  come. 


180  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  know  it,  aunt.  I've  been  head  over  heels  this 
week,  trying  to  make  the  dinner  a  go.  I  was  on 
my  feet  all  yesterday  and  to-night  I  don't  expect 
to  go  home  at  all." 

"Oh,  this  will  be  finished  when  Merlin  comes 
back,"  Carmen  reminded  her.  "But  it  is  all  very 
chic.  You  have  done  remarkably  well."  Her 
lorgnon  traveled  approvingly  before  her  fierce  black 
eyes.  "And  I  shall  not  rest  until  I  have  seen  your 
amusing  woman  soldier — Comrade " 

"Comrade  Fishkoff,"  supplied  Rosamonde.  "It 
has  been  very  annoying " 

A  knock  at  the  door  relieved  her  temporarily  of 
the  embarrassing  confession. 

"I've  got  to  answer  the  door." 

"My  dear!    Haven't  you  a  servant?" 

But  Rosamonde  had  already  gone  forward  to  let 
in  Miss  Felda  Drigg  and  her  husband  Mr.  Eldred 
Smole. 

"We  are  very  much  pleased,"  declaimed  Miss 
Drigg,  speaking  for  the  family  in  her  musical  bari- 
tone. "I  recently  finished  my  transcontinental  lec- 
ture tour  and  am  rejoiced  to  return  to  my  domestic 
work  for  a  time." 

Comrade  Drigg  was  burning  in  an  advanced 
stage  of  the  epidemic  egomania. 

"What  is  your  domestic  work  ?"  asked  Aunt  Car- 
men, her  own  arrogance  dwarfed  beside  this  tower- 
ing specimen. 

"I  paint,"  rolled  out  the  deep  syllables,  "but  I 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  181 

am  not  in  sympathy  with  any  school.  The  portrait 
of  Lenine  is  mine." 

Aunt  Carmen  focused  her  lorgnons  on  the  daub 
over  the  table  and  remarked : 

"Oh,  yes.    I  see.    It  is  a  portrait/' 

"But  the  craft  should  be  incidental  to  the  move- 
ment," Miss  Drigg  lectured  on.  "I  have  talked 
before  thousands  and  found  the  general  sentiment 
increasingly  helpful.  Especially  in  Bakersfield 
among  the  oil  wells." 

"Will  the — the  proletariat  take  over  the  oil 
wells?"  asked  Carmen,  attempting  to  be  agreeable. 

"No.    They  will  burn  them." 

Upon  this  announcement  the  door  again  opened 
to  admit  a  knot  of  delegates  to  the  soviet:  Com- 
rade Alfonzo,  wearing  a  velveteen  jacket  and  the 
red  sash,  two  hairy  eskimos  who  were  introduced 
by  their  Russian  names,  and  Comrade  Epstein,  the 
advanced  Sinn  Feiner.  Aunt  Carmen  was  too  busy 
shaking  hands  to  ask  any  more  questions  about  the 
Battalion  of  Death;  but  this  was  merely  whistling 
against  the  evil  hour. 

Next  came  Comrade  Hattie,  the  meek  little  old 
maid.  Although  she  seemed  to  lack  sufficient  cour- 
age to  carry  on  a  revolution  against  a  colony  of 
ants,  she  spoke  in  her  little  quavering  voice  about 
a  certain  god  she  cultivated,  by  name  Destruction 
of  Private  Property. 

Emily,  absorbed  in  the  finishing  touches  of  her 
toilet,  paused  to  peek  out  and  see  Oliver  Browning 
come  in  wearing  an  old  khaki  shirt  and  a  loose  tie. 


182  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

This  was  the  second  occasion  on  which  Rosamonde 
had  caused  the  young  gentleman  to  meet  her 
aunt;  possibly  the  old  lady  was  getting  used  to  it. 
At  any  rate  it  seemed  not  unnatural  that  Aunt  Car- 
men should  have  taken  him  kindly  by  the  hand  and 
have  said  in  a  welcoming  tone: 

"Why,  Oliver,  you  have  joined,  too?" 

Apparently  Carmen  regarded  Oliver  as  offensive 
only  when  Emily  was  around. 

Comrade  Niki  was  beginning  to  distribute  caviar 
sandwiches  and  Carmen's  favorite  cocktails  when 
she  for  whom  all  this  had  been  arranged  grew 
restive. 

"This  Russian  woman — General  Pickoff,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Corporal  Fishkoff,"  corrected  Rosamonde,  and 
prepared  to  tell  her  tale. 

"Oh,  yes.  It  doesn't  seem  strange  for  women 
to  have  military  titles  any  more.  Evelyn  Jones  is 
a  major  in  the  motor  corps,"  went  on  Carmen  in 
her  chattiest  manner.  "But  about  this  Corporal 
Fishkoff " 

"She  isn't  coming!"  announced  Rosamonde, 
"but " 

"Isn't  coming!"  Old  Carmen  empurpled  at 
the  implied  insult.  "Then  what  did  you  get  me 
here  for?" 

"She  was  expected  up  to  the  last  minute,"  said 
Comrade  Timothy.  "But  this  afternoon  we  got 
word  that  she  had  married  a  laundryman  and  de- 
serted the  cause." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  183 

"But  we've  been  very  lucky,"  implored  Rosa- 
monde  with  a  look  for  help  from  Syle. 

"Quite  fortunate,"  he  came  back  swiftly.  "The 
Russian  movement  is  so  well  established  in  this 
country  that  it  is  beginning  to  lose  its  first  novelty. 
We  are  now  turning  toward  the  Turkish  move- 
ment." 

It  sounded  to  Emily  like  comparative  massages, 
but  Rosamonde  hastened  to  take  up  the  theme. 

"Corporal  Winifred  El-Zelim  of  the  Turkish 
Battalion  of  Death " 

"She  was  smuggled  in  past  the  capitalistic  immi- 
gration authorities,"  supplied  Syle,  with  a  glibness 
unworthy  so  restless  a  truth  finder. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  never  considered  the  Turks,"  con- 
ceded Carmen,  already  half  appeased. 

This  seemed  an  ideal  cue  for  the  hidden  Emily 
who,  having  wrapped  a  yard  of  chiffon  round  her 
face,  tiptoed  through  the  unbolted  door  into  Com- 
rade Elsa's  empty  room  and  thence  out  into  the 
hall.  Dramatically  she  knocked  upon  Our  Com- 
munity's door. 

The  next  instant  had  admitted  the  strangest  sol- 
dier that  ever  battled  in  or  out  of  a  trench.  She 
came  undulating  forward  and  female  the  figure  un- 
doubtedly was.  Brilliant  red  harem  trousers  fell  to 
shoes  which  were  decidedly  American  in  cut.  A 
field-gray  military  coat,  loosely  fitting  at  the  waist, 
showed  a  corporal's  chevrons  on  one  of  the  short 
sleeves.  Corporal  El-Zelim's  face  was  conjectural, 
for  a  veil  concealed  it  from  nose  to  chin  and  she 


184  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

wore  a  curious  greenish  rather  soiled  turban  tightly 
bound  round  her  forehead.  Only  in  her  eyes  was 
her  beauty  revealed  and  these,  shining  purest  gray 
under  blue  painted  lids,  were  penciled  at  the  cor- 
ners, giving  them  a  long,  strange,  unearthly  look. 

"Comrade,"  said  Walter  Scott  Syle,  making  the 
best  of  it,  "this  is  Comrade  El-Zelim,  our  soldiers' 
and  sailors*  delegate  from  Constantinople." 

Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope  stepped  eagerly  forward 
and  took  one  of  the  little  hands  in  hers.  The 
fingers  were  tipped  with  vermilion. 

"I  no  spik  pretty  good  Eengliss,"  explained  the 
little  corporal  in  a  thin  metallic  voice.  "But  I  hear 
such  manny  good  things  from  you." 

This  addressed  straight  to  Aunt  Carmen,  who  in 
all  her  luxury-loving  career  had  never  been  able  to 
resist  a  flatterer.  In  the  ecstasy  of  handshaking 
Corporal  El-Zelim  came  round  at  last  to  Oliver 
Browning,  who  took  one  look  at  the  gray  tunic  and 
tittered  a  strange  ripping  sound  through  his  nose. 

"You  laugh  for  me?"  inquired  Comrade  El- 
Zelim,  whose  veil  offered  her  every  advantage. 

"If  necessary,"  replied  Oliver.  "But  I  think  you 
can  get  away  with  your  share  of  that  stuff." 

They  got  themselves  to  the  dinner  table  and  din- 
ner table  got  itself  into  that  state  of  Bolshevised 
energy  which  any  dinner  table  can  nowadays,  given 
a  sufficient  number  of  hand-picked  radicals. 

Emily  from  behind  her  veil  rather  marveled  at 
her  own  success  and  began  wondering  why  she 
hadn't  gone  on  the  stage.  She  sat  at  a  corner  of 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  185 

the  long  table,  between  Comrade  Timothy  and 
Aunt  Carmen;  but  Aunt  Carmen  had  ears  only  for 
the  delegate  from  Turkey. 

Comrade  Niki,  with  the  assistance  of  Comrade 
Elsa,  was  serving  the  excellent  soup  from  Tan- 
quay's.  The  various  nationalities  round  the  table 
attacked  the  liquid,  making  night  melodious.  The 
soviet  was  now  devoting  its  vocal  organs  to  eating, 
an  activity  more  important  than  conversation.  To 
Emily  alone  the  moment  was  painful ;  she  was  very 
hungry,  but  even  a  corporal  in  the  Battalion  of 
Death  knows  not  a  way  to  take  chicken  gumbo 
through  a  veil.  If  she  lifted  that  veil  then  the  cat 
would  assuredly  be  out  of  the  bag  and  Aunt  Car- 
men go  screaming  after  it. 

"You're  not  eating/'  observed  the  great  lady  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  waits  to  see  the  anaconda  en- 
gorge a  rabbit. 

"Not  soup,"  explained  Corporal  El-Zelim. 
"With  us  it  is  telka." 

"It  is  what?"  Old  Carmen  neglected  her  own 
broth  in  a  frenzy  of  curiosity. 

"Telka.  That  iss  Turkeesh  word — what  it 
means?  Our  people  no  could  eat  it  in  the  moon  of 
Solomon." 

"That's  inconvenient,  isn't  it!"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Carmen.  "I've  just  been  on  a  diet  myself — dread- 
ful bore." 

Emily  reached  out  for  a  ripe  olive  and  managed 
to  get  it  under  her  veil.  The  act  gave  her  two 
inspirations  at  once.  By  sticking  to  hard  food  she 


186  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

could  manage  to  keep  alive;  by  speaking  very  bad 
English  she  could  answer  any  question  under  the 
sun  and  nobody  would  know  whether  she  was  right 
or  wrong. 

"I  thought  you  women  of  Turkey  were  more 
civilized  than  that,"  up  spoke  Aunt  Carmen  with 
characteristic  abruptness. 

"So?    What  civilized ?" 

"If  you  are  emancipated  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  I  should  think  you  would  give  up  fasting  on 
this  thing  you  call  the  moon  of  Solomon." 

"Ah!    But  it  iss  zaab." 

"What  is  saab " 

"What  you  call  it  in  Eengliss?" 

"I  see."  Aunt  Carmen  had  apparently  given  up 
any  attempt  at  translation,  for  she  went  on :  "What 
did  you  fight  when  you  were  in  Turkey,  corporal  ?" 

"My  hus-band,"  replied  the  corporal  very  dis- 
tinctly. 

"You  don't  have  to  put  on  a  uniform  to  fight 
your  husband,  do  you?"  gasped  the  old  lady,  who 
was  the  veteran  of  many  such  battles. 

"Yes.  We  mass  against  all  Turk  husbands  in 
one  army.  This  will  be  woman  revolution.  We 
take  government." 

"That  sounds  very  sensible  to  me.  I  have  al- 
ways been  a  great  believer  in  the  emancipation  of 


women." 


"I  so  glad!"  The  corporal  clapped  her  little 
red-tipped  hands.  "I  wish  all  America  woman  was 
great  intelligence  like  you." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  187 

She  sized  up  her  aunt  in  one  long-eyed  glance. 
The  flattery  apparently  was  taking  effect,  for  Mrs. 
Shallope's  fierce  eyes  were  already  softening. 

"I  much  believer  in  religion  of  love,"  said  the 
delegate  from  Turkey,  making  her  voice  rich  and 
soft. 

"My  dear!  How  extraordinary!"  cried  Aunt 
Carmen,  tears  coming  to  her  eyes.  "Do  they  have 
this  religion  in  Turkey,  too?" 

"It  was  beginned  there,"  announced  the  corporal. 
"How  else  could  they  keep  great  harems  comfort- 
able?" 

"I  have  believed  in  it  for  years,"  announced 
love's  strangest  disciple.  "Isn't  it  a  wonderful  be- 
lief? I  don't  know  how  I  should  ever  get  along 
without  it.  I  have  had  so  many  trials." 

Aunt  Carmen  was  apparently  pausing  on  the 
brink  of  a  confidence. 

"How  did  you  get  those  trials?"  asked  Miss  El- 
Zelim. 

"I  have  been  the  victim  of  greed  and  base  in- 
gratitude," explained  the  old  lady,  her  face  tighten- 
ing. 

"From  servants,  maybe,  or  friends?"  Emily 
was  "feeding,"  as  they  say. 

"From  one  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  took 
that  girl  out  of  the  direst  poverty,  fed  her,  gave 
her  a  home,  clothed  her " 

"I  know,"  purred  the  Oriental.  "We  see  them 
all  time  in  Turkey.  Those  poor  relationships  re- 


188 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

fuse  to  kiss  your  feet  when  you  give  them  thrown- 
away  clothing.' ' 

"I  clothed  her  very  well,"  snapped  Aunt  Carmen. 
"I  refused  to  see  one  of  my  own  family  go  shabby; 
and  I  would  have  arranged  her  life  for  her " 

"Why  did  she  leave  from  you?" 

"How  did  you  know  she  left  me  ?"  The  haughty 
Mrs.  Shallope  had  turned  suspicious  eyes  upon  the 
veil  of  mystery  and  Emily  had  feeling  that  she 
was  carrying  her  adventure  into  danger  lands. 

"She  should,  of  course.  Poor  relationships  are 
sometimes  swollen  by  pride.  They  do  not  know 
sufficiently  how  to  worship.  Why  she  go?" 

"She  insisted  upon  marrying  an  insignificant 
little  mule  driver!" 

"How  bad !  To  do  such  a  thing  she  knew  noth- 
ing about  the  religion  of  love.  She  merely  runned 
away  to  chase  her  heart  where  it  went." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  remarked  Aunt  Car- 
men, and  turned  away  to  Professor  Syle,  who  sat 
on  her  right. 

The  pause  gave  Emily  a  chance  to  gaze  round  the 
Mad  Hatter's  Party  and  to  appreciate  it  in  full 
operation.  The  comrades  were  hard  at  it,  indulg- 
ing in  their  only  medium  of  expression,  which  was 
debate.  Comrade  Epstein  was  tilting  furiously 
with  a  somewhat  comely  young  person  who  wore  a 
tiara  of  green  glass,  and  complicated  earrings  which 
hung  like  Venetian  chandeliers  and  clicked  noisily 
every  time  she  moved  her  head. 

"I  was  an  aesthete  before  I  became  a  revolution- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 189 

ist,"  she  heard  the  much  decorated  lady  piping  out 
of  the  babble. 

Comrade  Niki  had  gone  on  a  strike  apparently, 
for  he  came  out  of  the  kitchen  and  took  his  place 
beside  one  of  the  Eskimo- faced  Russians  at  the 
other  end  of  the  board.  His  dialect,  rivaling  the 
strange  word  combinations  of  El-Zelim,  was  being 
hurled  belligerently  at  the  glowering  Muscovite, 
who  slammed  his  big  fist  on  the  table  and  frowned 
down  on  the  little  person,  like  Polyphemus  bully- 
ing a  mouse.  Poor  Rosamonde  had  left  her  place 
and  was  helping  Comrade  Elsa  wait  on  table.  Red 
wine  was  being  served  in  goblets.  Disjointed  isms 
hurtled  through  the  air,  missing  their  marks  or 
falling  unexploded — maximilism,  capitalism,  mili- 
tarism, individualism,  optimism,  metabolism,  de- 
terminism. 

Emily  managed  to  get  a  forkful  of  spaghetti 
under  her  veil  and  safely  to  her  mouth.  What 
greater  test  could  there  be  of  a  native  ability? 
Across  the  table  she  caught  Oliver's  teasing  smile, 
but  when  again  she  looked  he  was  saying  to  the 
meek  and  dangerous  Comrade  Hattie: 

"The  true  Theocrat  would  put  the  freedom  of 
the  seas  entirely  on  a  religious  basis." 

Comrade  Walter  had  to  make  a  speech  as  a 
matter  of  course.  He  had  the  preacher's  habit  of 
sermonizing  upon  every  public  occasion.  To-night 
his  talk  was  not  even  amusing  to  Emily  because 
she  had  heard  him  make  the  same  utterances  over 
and  over  again  during  her  short  stay  in  the  studio. 


190  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

He  was  a  great  believer  in  statistics.  He  could, 
given  breathing  space,  prove  by  the  number  of 
negro  babies  born  in  Alabama  during  the  month  of 
March,  1912,  that  the  cotton-mill  workers  of 
Massachusetts  were  entitled  to  a  five-hour  day. 
There  was  always  somebody  to  disagree  with  every- 
thing he  said;  which  did  not  indicate  that  he  was 
unpopular  but  merely  that  he  was  living  in  Bol- 
shevikia. 

Comrade  Alfonzo,  the  Villista,  seemed  most  vio- 
lently opposed  to  everything  that  was  said.  Al- 
fonzo, it  was  manifest,  had  no  great  capacity  for 
red  wine.  After  his  first  goblet  he  was  gesticulat- 
ing frightfully,  making  stabbing  gestures  with  his 
black  forefinger,  showing  his  magnificent  teeth, 
shaking  his  blue-black  mane  and  growling  like  a 
dog. 

"He  is  too  dangerous?"  asked  Miss  El-Zelim  of 
Miss  Drigg's  husband,  two  seats  away. 

"Not  so  very,"  drawled  the  gentle  little  editor  of 
the  Outburst.  "He  usually  goes  to  sleep  before 
anything  happens." 

But  it  became  more  and  more  obvious  as  Wal- 
ter's sermon  dragged  on  that  Comrade  Alfonzo  was 
agonizing  for  a  speech.  He  would  cry  "Bah !"  and 
"Lookat!"  every  other  sentence.  Then  as  suddenly 
as  he  had  burst  into  flame  he  sank  under  the  table 
and  disappeared  from  sight.  Emily's  natural  con- 
clusion that  he  had  retired  for  the  evening  was 
proven  wrong  a  moment  later  by  the  dark-skinned 
Comrade's  reappearance  above  the  red  tablecloth. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  191 

His  look  was  sly  and  he  grinned  a  vengeful  grin  in 
the  direction  of  Aunt  Carmen. 

Emily's  attention  was  deflected  by  a  twitch  at 
the  sleeve  of  her  German  tunic.  Aunt  Carmen  was 
leaning  toward  her,  her  eyes  big  with  alarm. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  whispered  in  Emily's 
ear.  "I  brought  my  hand-bag  to  the  table  with  me. 
I  seem  to  have  dropped  it." 

"I  so  sorry,"  said  the  temporary  Turk.  "I  look 
» 

While  Comrade  Walter's  epoch-making  speech 
rattled  easily  on  Emily  lifted  the  cloth  and  gazed 
along  the  serried  row  of  folded  feet.  Rough  bro- 
gans,  shoddily  modish  shoes,  she  counted  every  one 
of  them;  but  in  that  motley  display  there  appeared 
no  trace  of  Aunt  Carmen's  bag.  Emily,  who 
through  a  crack  in  the  bedroom  door  had  watched 
her  haughty  relative  stow  away  her  jewels  before 
the  party,  knew  too  well  what  the  loss  would  in- 
volve. 

"I  no  see,"  she  announced  in  her  self-made  bab- 
ble. 

"Are  you  sure?"  Aunt  Carmen  was  fixing  her 
with  an  accusing  eye. 

In  a  horrible  flash  Emily  remembered  how  often 
her  amiable  relative  had  accused  her  servants  of 
theft.  She  grew  pallid  under  her  veil,  thinking  of 
what  scenes  might  follow  should  old  Carmen  de- 
mand a  search. 

Comrade  Walter  went  merrily  on. 


192  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Maybe  better  had  tell  you  lose  it,"  whispered 
Emily. 

"No,  no!"  Carmen  held  tight  to  her  arm  and  it 
was  fear  that  gave  the  painful  tension  to  her  rin- 
gers. "You  mustn't  do  that,  whatever  you  do." 

And  at  that  instant  Comrade  Alfonzo  had 
bobbed  up  like  a  jumping  jack  and  was  pounding 
his  fork  on  his  plate. 

"Wan  minute!"  he  snarled  through  those  great 
teeth. 

Professor  Syle's  face  took  on  that  indignant  look 
it  always  wore  when  his  paragraphs  were  being 
interrupted. 

"Comrades,"  Alfonzo  snarled  on,  "I  wish  to  say 
dat  we  got  in  our  midst  a  tr-r-r-aitor !" 

The  sensation  was  immediate.  The  two  Rus- 
sians came  to  their  feet  and  Comrade  Hattie 
tripped  old-maidishly  to  the  studio  door  and  turned 
the  key. 

"Comrade  Alfonzo,"  decreed  Professor  Syle 
quietly,  "this  is  a  serious  charge.  Would  you  please 
define  your  attitude?" 

"A  capitalista  has  come  here  to  spy  and  maka 
trouble.  Comrades,  I  have  a  rule  which  I  love  be- 
cause I  am  a  Mehicano.  In  dis  soviet  we  cannot 
have  capitalista  spies  to  go  away  and  maka  report. 
Therefore  I  kill." 

Already  Alfonzo  was  reaching  down  toward  his 
red  sash  and  Walter  Scott  Syle,  growing  a  shade 
paler,  was  quick  to  protest : 

"We  can  make  investigation,  I  am  sure.    What 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 193 

makes  you  think  we  are  under  espionage,  Com- 
rade?" 

Out  from  his  red  sash  Alfonzo  brought  a  bulky 
silken  bag  of  a  fashionable  design. 

"Does  any  one  here  own  dis-a  bag?"  he  grinned 
murderously. 

Emily  looked  at  Aunt  Carmen,  who  sat  there, 
her  face  stony,  her  eyes  fixed  to  a  frightful  stare. 

"No?"  He  waited  a  space,  but  no  one  spoke. 
"Dat  is  unfortunate.  Then  I  show  you  what  I  find 
in  it.  Mira!"  He  had  plunged  his  hand  into  the 
bag  and  brought  out  a  great  brooch,  afire  with  dia- 
monds. As  he  held  it  fiercely  above  his  head  the 
magnificent  bauble  seemed  to  shoot  a  boreal  display 
halfway  across  the  soviet.  Again  his  hand  shot 
snakelike  into  the  bag.  This  time  it  brought  out  a 
cabuchon  ruby,  two  enormous  pear-shaped  pearls 
and  a  ring  set  with  three  diamonds  aggregating  a 
dozen  karats  or  more. 

Rosamonde,  dear  jewel-loving  creature  that  she 
was,  uttered  a  little  scream  and  swayed  in  her 
chair. 

"Ah !"  The  Villista  seemed  to  show  his  teeth  as 
far  back  as  his  ears.  "Den  dey  are  yours  maybe?" 

"No!"    Rosamonde  was  hysterical  in  her  denial. 

"Bueno!  Den  dey  belong  to  de  state.  Here  is 
one  di'mond  breastpiece  which  contain  sufficient 
jewelry  to  feed  six  working  families  one  year. 
Dis-a  ring  will  keep  one  poor  comrade  from  starva- 
tion all  his  life.  Dis-a  earrings — bah!  I  am  dis- 
gusto.  Poor  pipple  starve  in  East  Side  slumma. 


194  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Reech  pipple  spend  food  and  lodging  of  poor  pipple 
to  dress  like  Aztec  kings.  Wot  shall  we  do  wid 
such?" 

"Kill  them!"  suggested  that  gentle  spinster, 
Comrade  Hattie. 

"But,  Comrade  Alfonzo,"  interposed  Professor 
Syle,  still  maintaining  his  conciliatory  tone,  "now 
that  we  have — acquired — these  treasures,  how  can 
we  apply  them?" 

"I  tell-a  you  wot  I  do!"  With  one  hand  the 
Mexican  had  gathered  the  jewels  to  his  broad  chest 
while  with  the  other  he  snatched  his  wine  glass  and 
drained  it  at  a  gulp.  "Bueno.  Poor  pipple  pick 
dem  off  de  street." 

So  saying  he  kicked  over  his  chair  and  strode 
magnificently  toward  an  open  window  facing 
Pomander  Place. 

"Stop!" 

The  command  came  from  Aunt  Carmen  and  was 
pitched  in  the  unearthly  croak  of  one  protesting  in 
a  nightmare. 

"Ha!"  The  Villista  turned  dramatically,  one 
lock  of  his  black  mane  shaken  over  his  diabolical 
grin. 

"The — the  jewels — belong  to  me." 

Emily  scarcely  recognized  her  arrogant  aunt  in 
this  pleading,  scared  old  woman. 

"Den  you" — the  Mexican  advanced  a  few  grand- 
operatic  steps — "you  come  here  carrying  jewels 
you  value  more  dan  life  of  poor  pipple?" 

"I  don't  value  them  particularly,  really  I  don't!" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  195 

ir^'^^"^^"'"*''"''''*"^^^™^^"^"'"^^^^™*^™^™^^"™^™^"'*'***^™'*™^^^"*"™'""'*^^™ 

protested  Aunt  Carmen,  cringing  back  as  though 
Alfonzo  had  already  drawn  his  dagger. 

"Den  maybe  you  would  not  care  if  I  throw  dem 
to  street?"  he  laughed  like  an  old-fashioned  villain. 

"Yes,  I  should  care  dreadfully.  I  don't  value 
them  because  of  the  money — really  I  don't " 

"Ha!     No?" 

"No,  really.  But  I  am  merely  keeping  them  be- 
cause of  a  sentimental  value.  You  see,  some  one 
I  dearly  loved " 

"You  love  some  capitalista,  yes!"  snarled  Al- 
fonzo, and  was  again  turning  toward  the  window 
when  the  delegate  from  Turkey  took  a  hand. 

"Comrade!"  cried  Corporal  El-Zelim,  rising  slim 
and  mysterious  as  she  struck  an  Oriental  pose 
which  she  remembered  having  seen  in  some  motion- 
picture.  Alfonzo  stopped  again  and  glared  round. 

"You  could  not  be  true  socialist  and  throw  those 
jewels  downstairs.  Why?  Because  the  religion  of 
love  must  be  sacred  to  all  Comrades.  Not  thus? 
And  Comrade  Carmen  believe  in  religion  of  love. 
What  keeps  all  world  glued  together  in  universal 
legion  of  honor?  Love!  What  strength  of  kiss- 
ing shall  finally  wreck  capitalists  off  their  strength? 
Love!  I  come  to  these  America  from  far  country 
for  show  you  those  lesson.  If  Bolshevism  shall  be 
engineered  by  love  then  we  shall  win  pretty  quick. 
If  it  is  ran  by  hate  we  shall  back  off  and  quit.  In 
Turkish  army  I  shoot  for  love,  I  suffer  bullet 
wound  inside  myself  because  love  continue.  This 
nice  lady  gather  sacred  souvenir  in  memory  of 


196  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

dearest  forgotten.  Shall  your  wrong  hands  dump 
them  out?  No!  Oh,  noble  peasant,  I  ask  you  by 
all  red  flags  of  love  give  back  those  trifling  mem- 
ories of  jewels  to  Comrade  Carmen  or  I  must  re- 
turn to  Turkey  and  report  American  soviet  no 
good." 

And  to  make  this  dramatic  performance  conn 
plete  Emily  threw  herself  on  her  knees  and  crawled 
over  to  Comrade  Alfonzo  to  embrace  his  crooked 
calves.  The  attempt  was  successful  beyond  her 
hopes.  Alfonzo  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping, 
kicked  his  suppliant  to  one  side  and  floundered  over 
to  where  Aunt  Carmen  sat. 

"Take-a  dem !"  he  was  beseeching,  clattering  the 
treasure  pell-mell  into  the  dowager's  lap.  "I  could 
not  understanda  what  I  do !  Forgeeve !" 

When  Emily  got  to  her  feet  she  saw  a  pretty 
picture.  Comrade  Alfonzo  »was  kissing  Aunt  Car- 
ment  violently  on  her  withered  cheek.  And,  child 
of  whim  and  vanity  that  she  was,  Aunt  Carmen 
liked  it,  for  she  was  all  smiles  now  as  she  took  the 
revolutionist's  black  hand  in*hers  and,  arising,  made 
the  following  speech: 

"Comrades,  I  am  tremendously  touched  by  this 
act  of  generosity.  I — I  really  want  to  throw  my- 
self heart  and  soul  into  your  work.  Comrade 
Walter  and  ladies  and  gentlemen — comrades,  I 
should  say — I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  would  all 
come  to  me  at  my  Long  Island  home  for  a — a 
week-end  soviet — next  Saturday  afternoon?  I 
should  be  delighted  to  put  you  all  up,  you  know, 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  197 

^^m*^m"^^^~m^**m**~m'^^^^^^^~*m^^^^^m^^^^^^^^^^^^^^m*i*****^m^^^^^^^ 

and  we  will  get  better  acquainted  and  discuss  our 
— our  problems." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  in  another 
moment  broke  forth  from  one  and  all  a  cry  as 
if  the  Volscians  were  coming  o'er  the  wall.  Or  it 
was  the  cry  of  a  foresighted  menagerie  which,  hav- 
ing fed,  howls  splendidly  at  the  prospect  of  better 
meals  to  come. 

"Comrades,  are  we  all  agreed?"  asked  Professor 
Syle  as  soon  as  he  could  be  heard. 

"Agreed!  Agreed!"  burst  raucously  from  a 
dozen  throats  at  once. 

"Mrs.  Shallope — Comrade  Carmen — we  take 
pleasure  in  accepting  your  kind  invitation.  And 
before  the  meeting  is  adjourned  let  us  devote  a 
half  hour  to  a  general  discussion  on  the  advisabil- 
ity of  a  national  railroad  strike." 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  asked  Comrade  Oliver  across 
the  table.  He  was  looking  straight  at  Emily;  but 
a  veil,  like  a  beard,  offers  the  advantage  of  hiding 
one's  emotions. 

This  had  all  been  wonderful.  Not  more  won- 
derful, perhaps,  than  the  sight  of  Comrade  Alfonzo 
insisting  on  being  one  of  the  delegates  to  escort 
Aunt  Carmen  to  her  car.  Professor  Walter  Scott 
Syle  went,  too,  upon  Emily's  suggestion  and  the 
promise  that  he  could  come  back  for  a  talk.  When 
they  all  were  gone  and  the  ladies  were  getting  back 
into  sane  apparel  Emily  had  opportunity  to  ask  of 
Rosamonde, 

"Was  there  ever  anything  like  it  before?" 


198  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I'm  so  glad  it  was  a  success,"  said  Rosamonde. 
"Merlin  will  be  back  next  week,  and  heaven  knows 
what  I'll  do  to  have  any  fun  then." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  Aunt  Carmen's  week-end 
soviet?"  asked  the  unbeliever  in  their  midst. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  can  escape  from  Merlin. 
Are  you?" 

"If  it  kills  me.  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  millions. 
Didn't  you  hear  Aunt  Carmen  specially  invite  me?" 

Professor  Syle  came  back  at  last  and  had  just 
helped  himself  to  one  of  Rosamonde's  gold-tipped 
favorites  when  Rosamonde  asked  the  apparently 
idle  question: 

"You  didn't  have  any  trouble  cashing  that  check, 
did  you?" 

"Your  check?"  asked  the  professor  in  his  absent- 
minded  way.  "Oh,  yes,  that  affair  down  at  the 
Nitrate  Company.  Why,  yes,  there  was  some 
trouble." 

"Oh!"  Rosamonde  paled  visibly.  "Didn't  you 
show  Mr.  Steeley  my  note?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  deliberately.  "He  was  all 
right.  It  was  the  other  one." 

"What  other  one?" 

"The  capitalist — he  seemed  to  be  in  charge,  as 
I  remember  it.  He  seemed  to  be  behaving  like  a 
slave  driver,  as  a  capitalist  would." 

"What  did  he  look  like?"  Rosamonde  all  but 
whispered. 

"Stout,  short,  gray  mustache,  gaudy  little  dia- 
mond horseshoe  in  his  necktie.  He  stood  watch- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  199 

ing  me  as  I  got  out  of  your  car,  and  as  far  as  I 

could  see  followed  me  up  to  the  cashier's  office 
» 

"Rosa!"  cried  Emily,  for  her  cousin  had  given  a 
quavering  moan  and  fallen  upon  the  divan. 

"Don't!"  she  implored.  ''Don't  ask  questions? 
Did  he  see  my  note?" 

"He  took  it  away  from  the  cashier  and  then 
smiled — that  arrogant  slave-driver  smile  of  the 
capitalistic  class — and  said  the  check  was  good." 

"Emmy,"  said  Rosamonde  very  quietly,  "come 
home  with  me.  I  think  Merlin  must  be  back." 

The  Valiant  car  was  not  at  the  corner  of  Eight- 
eenth Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  where  it  had  been 
instructed  to  await  its  mistress  every  day  during 
her  adventures  in  Bolshevikia.  That  looked  black. 
Emily,  despite  her  dark  certainty,  advanced  feeble 
encouragement  to  the  effect  that  the  stout  and 
peevish  specter  of  the  Hemisphere  Nitrate  Company 
might  easily  have  been  some  one  else  than  Merlin. 
They  got  a  night-wandering  taxicab  on  Union 
Square,  which  was  lucky  enough,  since  it  was  now 
past  two  in  the  morning.  Rosamonde  sat  stiff  as 
a  corpse  all  the  way  up  Fifth  Avenue.  As  the 
lights  were  switched  on  in  the  Flemish  entrance  of 
the  Valiant  apartment  Emily  saw  a  yellow  envelope 
plainly  marked  Telegram  facing  them  on  the  Italian 
chest. 

"Arriving  noon.     Inform  O'Briem  to  meet  me 
with  car  at  Station.    Love.  MERLIN." 


200  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

She  read  this  message  over  Rosamonde's  quak- 
ing shoulder.  Merlin  had  changed  his  plans  and 
come  home  a  week  early !  Rosamonde  went  charg- 
ing through  the  big  room  toward  the  master's  suite, 
but  it  was  an  instant  later  that  she  came  flying  back 
to  force  a  sheet  of  paper  in  Emily's  hand  and  she 
collapsed  into  a  chair. 

"I  found  it  on  the  pincushion,"  she  moaned ;  and 
who  so  young  as  not  to  know  what  fatal  notes  al- 
ways grow  on  pincushions? 

The  words  on  the  paper  were  blotted  and 
scrawled,  in  a  stubbly,  savage  hand,  as  though  they 
had  been  written  in  hot  tar  at  the  point  of  a 
bayonet : 

"MRS.  VALLANT: 

"As  long  as  you  prefer  the  course  you  prefer 
(blot)  you  may  pursue  it  without  my  (word  il- 
legible). Neither  will  I  stand  by  and  countenance 
(more  blots)  disloyalty  in  public  places  and  an- 
archy (blot)  in  my  house. 

"I  have  moved  to  the  Tory  Club  and  my  lawyers 
will  make  you  a  suitable  monthly  allowance. 

"Hoping  you  will  (blot) 

"Very  respectfully, 

"MERLIN  A.  VALLANT." 


XIV 

EMILY,  Rosamonde  and  Mrs.  Finnessey  motored 
out  to  Mrs.  Shallope's  week-end  soviet  in  Merlin's 
second-best  limousine,  an  antediluvian  affair  dating 
some  four  or  five  years  into  antiquity.  Sunk  deso- 
lately among  the  cushions  Rosamonde  mourned  and 
mourned  and  mourned,  telling  over  and  over  again 
how  she  had  even  gone  down  to  the  crusty  tyrant's 
office  only  to  be  told  that  Mr.  Valiant  was  out  and 
to  be  referred  to  a  stingy  old  lawyer  with  a  wart 
on  his  nose. 

Mrs.  Finnessey,  most  of  whose  clients  were  un- 
happily wed,  received  these  confessions  with  plump 
equanimity.  Doubtless  she  was  already  calculating 
on  her  share  of  the  income  after  Mrs.  Valiant  was 
legally  separated  from  her  husband.  Not  so  little 
Emily,  who  had  somewhat  improved  her  disguise 
as  Corporal  El-Zelim  of  the  Turkish  Battalion  of 
Death  and  sat  veiled  and  swaddled  in  her  corner 
of  the  car.  She  had  cut  an  ingenious  mouthpiece 
in  the  veil  and  had  so  arranged  it  that  she  could 
feed  herself  without  revealing  too  much  of  her 
sacred  countenance. 

By  the  time  the  car  had  passed  Babylon  she  had 
about  decided  that  a  Reno  divorce  would  be  a  quick 
and  merciful  death  for  Merlin's  love.  Since  her 
quarrel  with  Oliver  Browning  she  had  begun  to 

201 


202  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

harden  a  little,  I  am  afraid,  toward  other  people's 
troubles;  moreover,  her  return  to  Aunt  Carmen's 
marble  palace  in  the  disguise  of  a  Mohammedan 
militant  was  having  at  least  a  temporary  effect  on 
her  character. 

Upon  arrival  at  Mrs.  Shallope's  baronial  gate 
they  were  gaped  at  by  the  same  head  gardener  who 
had  gaped  at  Oliver's  mules  one  morning  away 
back  in  the  golden  age  of  romance.  Mules!  The 
girl  in  the  comic  opera  uniform  raised  a  corner  of 
her  veil  to  touch  a  paint-daubed  eye. 

The  admirable  Owley  received  them  at  the  door, 
and  although  he  was  far  too  much  the  gentleman 
to  show  any  surprise  he  pointed  his  cantilever  nose 
almost  curiously  at  Corporal  El-Zelim  of  the  Turk- 
ish Battalion  of  Death  ere  turning  the  visitors  over 
to  an  assistant  who  should  relieve  them  of  their 
wraps.  Dear  old  Owley!  Emily  could  have 
thrown  herself  into  his  arms  and  kissed  him  on  the 
mole  above  his  shaggy  left  eyebrow. 

They  found  Aunt  Carmen,  beautifully  keyed  up 
for  the  occasion,  bullying  two  maid  servants  who 
scrambled  up  and  down  ladders  to  do  her  bidding. 
The  Louis-Quatorze  furniture  had  been  protected 
by  slip  covers,  which  fortunately  showed  a  bold  red 
stripe.  Garlands  of  red  carnations  hung  in  rich 
festoons  from  the  immense  crystal  chandeliers  and 
transformed  the  immense  room  into  one  ruddy 
blaze.  Painted  revolutionary  texts,  ugly  things  but 
impressive,  were  placed  at  intervals  along  the  silken 
panels,  and  a  five-yard  strip  of  crimson  Chinese 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  208 

embroidery,  which  Emily  remembered  as  once  ly- 
ing neglected  among  the  Shallope  relics,  had  been 
resurrected,  pressed  and  hung  along  the  east  wall, 
concealing  several  plutocratic  family  portraits. 

"Ah,  those  sublime  placards  of  revolution!" 
crowed  Corporal  El-Zelim,  clasping  her  red-tipped 
hands. 

"Owley  thought  of  them/*  replied  Aunt  Carmen 
with  unnatural  fairness.  "He's  thought  of  every- 
thing. Weren't  the  slip  covers  fortunate?  They're 
just  the  right  shade,  and  then  they're  a  protection 
in  case  of " 

Her  self-imposed  interruption  intimated  that  the 
Comrades,  however  right  spiritually,  might  bring 
in  more  dangerous  things  than  ideas. 

"You  think  of  everything,  Owley,"  repeated 
Aunt  Carmen  to  the  trusted  one,  as  if  to  make  her 
statement  official. 

"Yes,  madam."  Owley  was  on  a  stepladder, 
shortening  a  picture  cord  as  he  spoke.  "Thinking 
is  quite  necessary  to  my  profession,  if  I  might  say 


so." 


"Don't  get  conceited,"  commanded  the  woman, 
who  hated  any  trace  of  presumptuousness  on  the 
part  of  her  inferiors. 

"No,  madam."    Owley  got  down. 

"My  dear!"  With  characteristic  abruptness  old 
Carmen  had  turned  upon  Rosamonde — "You're 
looking  quite  ill.  What  in  the  world  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 


204  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"He — he's  left  me!"  cried  Rosamonde,  and 
looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  weep  again. 

"Who's  left  you?    Not  Professor  Syle?" 

Aunt  Carmen's  tone  expressed  a  haunting  fear 
that  the  lion  of  the  party  might  desert  them  at  the 
last  minute. 

"N-no!    Merlin!" 

"Merlin!"  Aunt  Carmen  snorted  like  a  dragon, 
then  turned  impatiently  toward  her  Owley.  "I 
think  that  motto  over  the  door  is  slipping  a  little. 
Better  shorten  the  wire  to  the  right !" 

Owley  mounted  the  ladder  to  do  her  queenly 
bidding,  his  action  bringing  into  prominence  the 
huge  framed  placard  which  Emily  read  over  care- 
fully. 

"The  Abolition  of  the  Exploitation  of  Men  by 
Men,  the  Entire  Abolition  of  the  Division  of  the 
People  into  Classes." 

Emily  drew  closer  to  the  ladder  and  read  it  over 
again. 

"My  word!"  she  exclaimed,  forgetting  her 
broken  English.  "Who  in  the  world  ever  brought 
that  into  the  house?" 

"I  did,  Miss  Ray." 

"Ss-s-st!"  she  warned,  startled  out  of  her  wits. 
Owley  quite  too  apparently  had  recognized  her 
voice. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  find  such  a  quota- 
tion?" she  asked,  by  way  of  saying  something. 

"Article    One,    Chapter   Two,    of    the    Russian 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  205 

Soviet  Constitution,  miss,"  he  replied,  quite  with- 
out emotion. 

Aunt  Carmen  by  now  had  finished  with  Rosa- 
monde's  recital  of  Merlin's  cruelty  and  was  re- 
membering her  duty  as  hostess. 

"The  soviet  is  arriving  by  the  four-six,"  she  ex- 
plained to  Emily.  "I  have  sent  my  cars  to  bring 
them  in." 

"Oh,  generous!"  cooed  El-Zelim,  kissing  the 
royal  hand,  which  was  somewhat  embarrassedly 
withdrawn. 

"You  and  Mrs.  Finnessey  will  have  the  north 
suite  together — unless  there  is  something  about 
your " 

"I  have  no  religious  objection,"  replied  El-Zelim. 
"Objections  are  all  emancipated  off  of  me." 

"That  is  fortunate,"  complimented  Mrs.  Shal- 
lope,  quite  apparently  anxious  to  talk  out  the  Mer- 
lin situation  with  her  foolish  Rosamonde. 

Katie,  a  poppy-cheeked  maid  whom  Emily  knew 
of  old,  was  about  to  unpack  the  visitor's  hand-bag 
in  the  handsome  flower-paneled  bedroom  which 
was  to  be  hers,  when  Emily  remembered  in  time 
that  the  girl  might  recognize  the  Ray  monogram 
and  spread  the  news  throughout  the  house.  There- 
fore, she  laid  a  kindly  restraining  hand  on  Katie's 
arm  and  lisped  in  her  artless  dialect : 

"Nev'  mind  undo  my  theengs.     I  do  so  for  me." 

"Suit  yourself !"  The  servant  fairly  spat  out  the 
words  as  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  left  the  room. 

Such  impertinence,  never  before  witnessed  in  the 


206  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Valiant  house,  was  but  an  indication  of  marvels  yet 
to  come. 

Presently  Emily  heard  the  tribal  cry  of  automo- 
biles, distantly  echoing.  Anxious  to  behold  Bol- 
shevism's entrance  into  Long  Island  society  she 
tucked  in  a  corner  of  her  turban,  which  she  had 
constructed  from  a  fragment  of  Rosamonde's  old 
gold  teagown,  and  proceeded  rapidly  down  the  cor- 
ridor. Halfway  between  her  door  and  the  landing 
she  all  but  bumped  into  Owley  coming  the  other 
way. 

"How  have  you  been,  Owley?"  she  asked,  her 
desire  to  confide  in  him  overcoming  her  caution. 

"Very  well  indeed,  miss,"  he  answered,  without 
the  slightest  show  of  surprise. 

"You're  not  going  to  tell  on  me,  Owley?" 

"Oh,  no,  miss,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  But  if  I  might 
say  so,  it  makes  me  very  'appy  to  see  you  back 
again." 

"It  won't  be  for  long,  I'm  afraid.  I  just  came 
with  the  Bolsheviks." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  His  eyes  became  round 
like  blue  beads. 

"You  don't  think  a  little  thing  like  that  strange, 
do  you?" 

"In  this  generation,  miss,  nobody  should  be  sur- 
prised at  what  'appens.  As  'Amlet  said  to  'Oratio, 
there  are  stranger  things  in  'eaven  and  hearth " 

"Even  on  Long  Island." 

"Not   wishing  to  say  anything  disparaging  of 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  207 

Mrs.  Shallope,  miss.  She  was  always  a  splendid 
'ostess?" 

"You  look  rather  depressed,  Owley." 

"According  to  the  words  of  Euripides,  miss, 
'Where  is  there  an  'appy  man  in  the  all  world  ?' ' 

"Where?"  echoed  Emily,  thinking  of  Oliver, 
Professor  Syle  and  Merlin  as  fair  samples.  Then, 
bringing  herself  wholesomely  out  of  the  abstract, 
she  inquired: 

"Has  Aunt  Carmen  asked  all  her  friends  to  come 
and  look  at  the  animals  perform?" 

"Not  for  to-night,"  said  Owley  in  solemn  tones. 
"She  wishes  to  keep  this  evening  entirely  in  the 
'ands  of  the  revolutionary  classes." 

"A  family  soviet." 

"Very  well  put,  miss,  if  I  might  say  so.  It  was 
my  suggestion  that  she  try  the  Comrades  out  first 
and  see  'ow  they  be'ave.  But  for  to-morrow  at 
luncheon  she  'as  asked  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Launcelot 
van  Laerens,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hilly-Tree,  the  Rev- 
erend Forsdyke  'Arbinger  and  a  few  others  of  'er 
own  class.  Afterward  there  will  be  a  general  re- 
ception and  a  lecture  by  this  radical  gentle- 
man  " 

"Professor  Syle,"  prompted  Emily. 

"And  a  Red  Revolt  dance  on  the  evening  of 
Monday.  We  'ave  gone  to  no  end  of  pains,  miss, 
what  with  'aving  old  'unting  coats  cleaned  for  the 
footmen  to  wear.  Then,  in  the  matter  of  vodka 
alone » 

"Vodka!" 


208  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Four  cases  of  Ai  vodka  which  I  procured  my- 
self from  a  Russian  dealer  who  is  considered  quite 
an  authority." 

"How  will  you  serve  the  nasty  stuff?  Shake  it 
up  as  a  cocktail,  maybe,  or " 

"By  no  means,  miss.  Vodka  cocktails  are  con- 
sidered quite  outree." 

"Then  how?" 

"Among  the  Bolsheviki  it  is  considered  good 
form  to  drink  it  straight." 

"My  word!  By  the  way  you  talk  you  might  be 
a  Bolshevik  yourself." 

"As  a  matter  or  fact,  miss,  I  am." 

The  rumbling  of  many  motors  and  the  jangling 
of  a  doorbell  suggested  that  the  guests  had  arrived ; 
wherefore  good  Owley  dropped  his  theories  and 
hastened  to  do  his  duty. 

From  her  post  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  Emily 
saw  strange  shapes  flocking  into  the  entrance 
hall.  William,  the  footman,  was  busying  himself 
in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  disposing  of  a  curious  col- 
lection of  wraps  as  Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle 
came  forward  at  the  head  of  his  red  army.  On 
his  good  right  hand  came  Comrade  Alfonzo,  wear- 
ing a  remarkable  waistcoat  upholstered  in  pink 
plush  rosebuds.  Emily  was  unable  to  count  the  ar- 
rivals at  the  moment,  but  her  impression  was  of 
great  numbers — numbers  a  degree  beyond  any  nor- 
mal invitation  list.  Emily  now  hastened  to  join 
the  welcomers. 

"How  do  you  do,  Comrade  Walter,"  Aunt  Car- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  209 

men  cried,  giving  him  one  of  the  short,  peculiar 
handshakes  of  the  present  day  mode.  "I'm  so  glad 
you  all  were  able  to  come." 

"I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  including  Comrades 
Rathnowski,  Horrovitch,  Zoom  and  Uruikskbod- 
konoff,  as  I  felt  our  soviet  would  be  incomplete 
without  the  cooperation  of  our  Ukrainian  kommis- 


sars." 


''You  are  quite  right,"  agreed  Aunt  Carmen, 
having  not  the  slightest  idea  what  he  was  talking 
about,  or  how  to  pronounce  it,  or  why  Ukrainian 
kommissars  were  superior  to  the  Serbian  variety. 
Her  training  having  been  social  rather  than  social- 
istic she  was  probably  wondering  just  how  she  was 
going  to  seat  these  Ukrainians  at  her  dinner  table. 
Meanwhile,  she  was  shaking  hands  energetically. 

"And  Comrade  Alfonzo." 

The  Mexican  revolutionist  showed  his  teeth  and 
all  but  wrung  off  her  hand  in  the  fierceness  of  his 
enthusiasm. 

Down  the  line  past  the  bird-faced  Comrade 
Hattie,  the  spectral  Comrade  Elsa,  the  manly  Miss 
Drigg  and  her  chaste  husband,  Mr.  Smole,  wee  war- 
like Comrade  Niki,  the  bulbous  Comrade  Tony,  the 
lady  revolutionist  with  the  jingling  jewelry,  the  two 
Eskimo  Russians  and  the  super-Sinn  Feiner,  Com- 
rade Epstein — faithfully  down  the  line  went  Aunt 
Carmen,  a  hearty  clasp  for  many  a  hand  soiled  with 
everything  but  toil. 

Well  to  the  rear  she  paused  before  the  last  hand- 
shake. Possibly  the  delay  was  caused  by  physical 


210  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

weariness.  Possibly  not.  For  he  who  stood  there, 
a  good-natured  smile  on  his  sunburned  features, 
was  none  other  than  Oliver  Browning. 

"How  do  you  do?"  asked  Aunt  Carmen,  giving 
his  fingers  a  catlike  claw. 

"My  name's  Browning,"  he  introduced  himself. 

"To  be  sure." 

Comrade  Carmen  had  already  turned  to  Pro- 
fessor Syle,  for  it  was  apparent  that  the  great  lady 
was  full  of  business  to-day. 

"I'm  sure  you'll  all  want  to  rest  a  little  before  tea 
time."  She  was  on  the  point  of  adding:  "And  a 
chance  to  wash  up,"  but  she  avoided  that  faux  pas, 
and  substituted  "We  have  tea  at  five." 

A  stranger  band  than  ever  sacked  Tsarskoe  Selo 
went  trooping  up  the  broad  marble  stairs.  Com- 
rade Epstein  was  already  clamoring  for  his  suit- 
case, and  had  to  be  told  that  it  had  gone  up  by  a 
freight  elevator  in  the  rear  of  the  palace.  One  of 
the  Ukrainian  kommissars  stopped  and  rubbed  his 
fat  dingy  fingers  over  the  surface  of  a  family  por- 
trait which  hung  low  above  the  turn  of  the  stair- 
case. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  tea  time  when  Emily  came 
down  and  found  Rosamonde,  who  had  changed 
to  a  simple  effect  with  zigzag  purple  stripes  and 
top-boots  of  Russia  leather,  talking  to  her  aunt 
in  the  big  sun  room  off  the  conservatory,  where  tea 
was  to  be  served. 

"You  look  so  tragic,"  complained  Aunt  Carmen. 
"I  do  wish  you  would  try  to  forget  yourself  a  min- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  211 

ute  and  help.  Heaven  knows  I  have  enough  wor- 
ries!" 

"I'm  not  trying  to  worry  you,  aunt/'  said  Rosa- 
monde  in  graveyard  tones. 

"Then  what  is  it?  Are  you  going  to  break  out 
again  about  Merlin?  If  you  love  me,  Rosa " 

"Not  that;  I  was  thinking  about  you.  Auntie, 
there's  something  peculiar " 

"I  hate  peculiar  things.  Don't  sit  there  looking 
like  a  ghost." 

"Have  you  noticed  the  behavior  of  the  serv- 
ants?" 

"Servants?"  It  was  as  though  Carmen  had 
never  before  heard  the  word.  "What's  the  matter 
with  them?" 

"They  seem  to  have  lost  their  minds.  Thomp- 
son quit  right  in  the  midst  of  hooking  my  gown 
and  didn't  come  back.  William  is  making  a  fright- 
ful noise  dumping  the  baggage  into  the  corridor. 
The  maids  seem  to  be  gathered  up  and  down  the 
backstairs  just  as  if  the  house  was  on  fire." 

"Impertinence!"  snapped  Aunt  Carmen. 
"What's  come  over  them?  They  seem  to  have  ut- 
terly forgotten  their  places  lately." 

Aunt  Carmen  turned  to  Emily  as  if  for  justifi- 
cation. The  look  she  gave  made  the  girl  nervous 
with  a  fear  that  the  sharp  old  eyes  were  boring 
through  her  veil,  ferreting  out  her  identity. 

"Corporal  Zinfandel " 

"El-Zelim,"  corrected  Rosamonde  in  a  hushed 
voice. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"I'm  sorry.  Corporal  El-Zelim,  have  you  no- 
ticed anything?" 

"Your  America  custom  is  so  deefernt  from  us," 
Emily  prattled  on.  "In  Turkeesh  harem  -  " 

"This  isn't  any  Turkish  harem  yet,"  Aunt  Car- 
men cut  in  impatiently.  "But  I  should  like  to  know 
what's  come  over  my  servants." 

It  was  Owley  who  loomed  into  the  presence  to 
answer  the  question. 

"Mrs.  White  asks  to  see  you,  madam,  if  it  is 
convenient." 

"Ah!  My  housekeeper  sends  for  me!  Tell  her 
to  come  here  at  once." 

"She  does  not  wish  to  come  to  you,  madam," 
Owley  went  on;  then  as  this  sacrilege  seemed  to 
call  for  explanation  :  "She's  in  the  service  dining- 
room  and  in  a  state  of  mind,  madam." 

"Has  the  world  turned  upside  down?"  asked  the 
tyrant  of  Plainview. 

"Quite  probably,  madam." 

"Speak  when  you're  spoken  to!"  she  croaked. 
"And  send  Mrs.  White  to  me  at  once." 

"Yes,  madam.  And  shall  I  send  in  the  others 
also?" 

"What  others?" 

"The  other  servants,  madam." 

"Who  ever  said  anything  about  any  other  serv- 
ants?" Mrs.  Shallope  fairly  shrieked,  whereupon 
Owley  backed  away,  as  he  should  before  royalty. 

She  had  scarce  time  to  mutter  an  imprecation 
against  all  created  housemaids,  chambermaids, 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  213 

cooks,  footmen  and  chore  boys  than  a  severe,  stout, 
elderly  female,  whose  form-fitting  costume  of  black 
was  accentuated  by  a  mourning  veil  and  large  jet 
earrings,  came  striding  in  at  the  head  of  a  mutiny. 
A  score  of  individuals,  male  and  female,  came  at- 
tired as  for  a  journey,  and  to  further  heighten  the 
illusion  of  travel  each  carried  a  suit-case,  an  um- 
brella and  a  package. 

"Mrs.  White,"  said  Mrs.  Shallope  to  the  black- 
clad  spokeslady,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  that — all  over  the 
house?"  suggested  Mrs.  White,  pursing  her  rather 
hard  lips. 

"Whatever  you  do,  please  remember  your  place." 

"I  do,  Mrs.  Shallope,  and  so  do  we  all."  There 
came  a  choral  nod  from  the  crew  of  mutineers. 
"All  over  the  house,  Mrs.  Shallope!  I've  been  in 
service  for  twenty-six  years,  Mrs.  Shallope,  and  I 
thought  I  knew  every  sort  of  house  party  there  was. 
And  I've  seen  some  stem-winders!  But  these  la- 
dies and  gentlemen  in  your  employ  have  been  raised 
in  respectable  homes,  Mrs.  Shallope,  and  not  while 
I  have  them  under  my  care  shall  they  be  permitted 
to  entertain  these — these  Anchorists." 

Mrs.  White  had  invented  a  new  word,  but  it  was 
reasonable  to  guess  that  she  was  referring  to  an- 
archists. 

"Whomever  I  choose  to  entertain  as  my  guests," 
decreed  the  czarina,  assuming  a  hauteur  she  could 
not  feel,  "are  not  to  be  questioned  by  my  servants." 

"Question  'em!"  snorted  Mrs.  White.     "What's 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


the  good  of  that?  They'd  answer  you  in  Chinese 
or  Eyetalian  if  you  did.  But  never  such  a  sight 
have  I  seen  before  in  our  class  of  society,  Mrs. 
Shallope.  I've  seen  drunken  gentlemen  come  to 
house  parties  —  yes,  and  quite  right  that  they  should 
misbehave  according  to  their  station  in  the  world. 
But  do  you  know  what  these  —  these  Anchorists  are 
doing,  going  all  at  once?" 

"I  have  no  intention  of  spying  on  my  guests." 

"William"  —  this  to  a  blank-faced  young  foot- 
man who  had  not  uttered  two  words  before  dur- 
ing his  term  in  this  house  —  "tell  Mrs.  Shallope 
what  you  saw  with  your  own  eyes." 

"The  Russian  gentleman,"  quoth  William  in  the 
stiff  tones  of  one  unaccustomed  to  speech,  "was 
a-laying  on  the  silk  coverlid  with  his  boots  on. 
The  dark  gentleman  with  the  hair  —  him  with  the 
teeth,  madam  —  was  found  emptying  the  contents  of 
his  traveling  bag  in  the  bathtub.  When  I  sought 
to  remonstrate  he  drew  a  weapon." 

"What  sort  of  a  weapon?"  shrilled  Aunt  Car- 
men, forgetting  her  resolution  to  be  calm. 

"I  did  not  remain  to  see." 

"And,  Mary."  Mrs.  White  turned  to  an  auburn- 
haired  beauty  identified  as  a  chambermaid.  "What 
did  you  see?" 

"Wan  of  thim  —  be  the  clothes  it  wore  it  was 
aither  a  lady  or  a  gintleman  —  was  a-markin'  all  the 
bedroom  doors  with  red  chalk.  And  when  I  told 
three  of  them  to  come  on  out  o'  there  they  cursed 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


out  in  Roosian,  maybe,  an'  continued  climbin'  onto 
the  roof." 

"Onto  thereof!'* 

"You  can  well  see,  Mrs.  Shallope,"  said  Mrs. 
White,  taking  up  the  solo  to  her  choral  arrange- 
ment, "why  we  no  longer  care  to  remain  in  your 
employ.  There  is  a  train  leaving  Plainview  at  five- 
forty-six." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say/'  growled  Aunt  Carmen, 
her  eyes  staring  out  of  her  head,  her  Ray  temper 
coming  to  the  aid  of  distraction,  "that  you  will  quit 
me  —  leave  me  in  the  lurch  with  a  house  party  on 
my  hands?" 

"We  didn't  make  the  lurch/'  declared  Mrs. 
White. 

Emily  praised  Allah  for  her  veil  ;  she  never  hoped 
to  see  the  moment  when  Aunt  Carmen's  slaves 
should  turn  upon  her  like  this. 

"And  if  you  go  you'll  get  no  character  from 
me/'  pursued  Mrs.  Shallope,  dying  game. 

"Yes,  we  will/'  announced  Mrs.  White,  who  like 
everybody  else  who  had  suffered  long  in  silence 
under  Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope  was  inclined  to  bru- 
tality at  the  hour  of  reckoning;  "because  if  you 
don't  give  us  a  good  one  we'll  tell  it  all  over  that 
you're  turning  your  house  into  an  Anchorists' 
nest." 

"Go!"  cried  Aunt  Carmen. 

"We're  a-going  fast  enough,"  said  Mrs.  White, 
"and  we'll  have  our  money  now/' 


216 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"You  will  not/'  snapped  Aunt  Carmen,  "unless 
you  finish  your  month/' 

"Then,"  announced  Mrs.  White,  "my  lawyer  will 
take  action.  How  about  cars  to  take  us  to  the 
train  ?" 

"I  forbid  my  chauffeurs  to  stir  an  inch." 

"We'll  walk  and  good  riddance,"  decided  Mrs. 
White  as  she  carried  out  her  threat,  followed  by  the 
general  strike. 

Aunt  Carmen  rushed  after  them  with  such  haste 
as  to  all  but  brain  poor  old  Owley,  who  had  been 
listening  at  the  edge  of  a  portiere. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this?"  she  asked, 
frenzied  for  a  victim. 

"I  was  under  the  impression,  madam " 

"There  are  too  many  people  under  an  impres- 
sion nowadays,"  she  cut  him  short.  "How  in  the 
world  are  we  going  to  serve  twenty  people  with 
no  servants?" 

"Self-'elp,  madam,  is  the  key  to  communism." 

"Faugh!  What  is  a  butler  supposed  to  know 
about  communism?  Are  you  going  to  leave  me  in 
the  lurch,  too?" 

"Quite  to  the  contrary,  madam.  I  shall  stay  with 
the  Comrades,  if  you  don't  mind." 

And  Mrs.  Shallope  hurried  away  to  join  her 
guests  who,  much  to  her  relief,  were  now  coming 
down  the  stairs  in  comparatively  good  order. 


XV 


IT  was  an  hour  after  midnight,  twenty-one  min- 
utes after  one,  to  be  exact;  the  time  seemed 
scorched  on  Emily  Ray's  memory  in  the  horror  of 
that  moment  when  Aunt  Carmen  had  whispered, 
"Take  me  away!"  and  the  temporary  Turk  had 
collected  her  wits  sufficiently  to  hustle  three  fright- 
ened women  through  a  small  door  under  the  stairs, 
along  the  passage  lined  with  faun-head  pilasters 
until  they  had  come  face  to  face  with  the  silly  gilt 
clock  ticking  merrily  in  its  niche.  Emily  Ray  was 
the  only  one  to  keep  her  head;  Rosamonde  and 
Mrs.  Finnessey  were  sobbing  comfortably,  their 
arms  entwined;  Aunt  Carmen's  elaborate  coiffure 
was  disintegrating,  gray  locks  dangling  until  she 
looked  like  an  escaping  witch. 

Lucky  for  Emily  that  she  knew  every  inch  of 
labyrinth  in  the  complicated  Shallope  house.  From 
past  experience  she  knew  that  the  Italian  corridor 
led  into  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  and  as  she  con- 
ducted her  fiery  relative,  spitting  imprecations,  she 
prayed  fervently  that  they  might  reach  a  point  of 
safety  ere  the  Sons  and  Daughters  of  Progress  real- 
ized the  manner  of  their  flight. 

"Did  you  hear  what  they  were  saying?"  hissed 
the  old  woman,  beside  herself. 

217 


218  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Try  to  be  still,"  suggested  Emily,  forgetting 
her  Turkish  accent.  "We'd  better  take  the  stair- 
way this  side." 

Her  only  thought  now  was  to  get  them  to  the 
fort,  that  oak-bound  garret  in  the  old  frame  house 
where  revolutionary  Shallopes,  according  to  the 
myth,  had  once  defied  the  British  mercenaries. 

Violent  scraps  of  disjointed  oratory  echoed  dis- 
tantly to  the  ears  of  the  four  escaping  women; 
drunken  snatches  of  the  Internationale,  sung  in  a 
variety  of  dialects;  such  words  as  "general  strike/' 
"slaughter,"  "love,"  "referendum,"  "state  control," 
"national  economy";  an  occasional  leonine  bellow 
from  the  lungs  of  Comrade  Alfonzo — these  and 
other  infernal  sounds  were  carried  indistinctly  from 
the  great  hall  to  the  comparative  safety  of  the  cor- 
ridor. Mrs.  Finnessey,  who  had  collapsed  now  and 
had  to  be  half  carried  in  the  arms  of  Emily — still 
in  the  role  of  Corporal  El-Zelim  and  well  tired 
of  it — sobbed  occasionally  and  moaned:  "You 
shouldn't  have  given  them  vodka."  Aunt  Carmen 
and  Rosamonde  were  clinging  together,  but  the  un- 
chastened  dowager  had  sufficient  strength  to  snap, 
"Shut  up!"  as  she  unlocked  a  little  oak  door  and 
dragged  the  other  three  of  them  after  her. 

"The  stairs  through  the  linen  room  will  take  you 
to  the  fort,"  suggested  Corporal  El-Zelim,  again 
forgetting  that  she  was  not  Emily  Ray. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  asked  Aunt  Carmen,  stop- 
ping suspiciously. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"You  say  so,  sweet  leddy,"  protested  El-Zelim, 
hustling  back  into  her  broken  English. 

"Oh,  so  I  did." 

She  had  said  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  in  the  agi- 
tation of  the  hour  she  was  far  from  being  respon- 
sible for  her  statements. 

So  it  was  through  the  mazes  of  the  linen  room 
that  the  gentle  refugees  went  scuttling,  bumping 
elbows  here  and  there  in  the  darkness,  for  they 
were  afraid  to  turn  on  the  lights.  Emily,  who  was 
by  far  the  coolest  of  the  little  band,  thought  she 
could  hear  the  humming  of  male  voices  in  the  rear. 
It  turned  out  to  be  wind  whistling  through  a  venti- 
lation pipe.  A  romantic  clicking  of  bolts  and  creak- 
ing of  hinges  announced  that  Aunt  Carmen  had  at 
last  found  the  oaken  door  to  the  fort. 

She  clicked  on  a  modern  electric  bulb  which, 
hanging  from  a  rough  beam,  cast  weird  shadows 
over  dusty  trunks  and  discarded  articles  of  Shallope 
furniture.  Garments  hanging  from  the  beams 
gave  an  unpleasant  suggestion  of  Bluebeard's  mur- 
dered wives  neatly  gibbeted  in  a  chamber  of 
horrors. 

Aunt  Carmen  kept  repeating,  "In  my  house!" 
over  and  over  like  a  litany. 

It  was  Emily  who  banged  to  the  heavy  door  and 
shot  the  long  oaken  bolt.  The  four  white  faces 
stared  at  one  another;  even  at  this  distance  maniac 
fragments  of  oratory  floated  up  to  them. 

"Who's  to  prevent  their  —  oh,  doing  anything 
now?"  whimpered  Rosamonde. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"You  might,"  coldly  suggested  Mrs.  Shallope. 
"It  was  you  who  got  them  here/' 

"Why,  Aunt  Carmen!" 

"It  was  the  vodka,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Finnessey. 

"They'd  go  wild  on  milk,"  Emily  contributed. 

"You  all  insisted  upon  Russian  drinks,"  snapped 
Carmen,  self  -justifying  to  the  last. 

"Tea  is  a  Russian  drink  —  they  would  never  have 
acted  like  this  on  tea,"  Rosamonde  added  her  wail. 

How  they  had  acted  went  through  Emily's  mind 
like  a  shudder;  how  the  Bolshevik  dinner  had  been 
quiet  enough,  as  Bolshevik  dinners  go,  until  Com- 
rade Alfonzo,  having  taken  his  second  glass  of 
vodka,  attempted  to  stab  Comrade  Tony  with  an 
oyster  fork  and  was  only  suppressed  by  the  argu- 
ment that  Tony  was  a  commander  in  the  American 
Red  Navy  and  as  such  sacred;  how  the  fire  water 
of  Muscovy  had  gone  to  every  head  and  freedom 
was  never  so  free  as  it  had  been  through  those 
chaotic  hours;  how  everybody  had  set  to  and  tried 
to  cook  dinner,  strewing  Aunt  Carmen's  blue-tiled 
and  copper-rimmed  kitchen  with  flour,  broken  eggs 
and  fragments  of  the  priceless  Shallope  china  ;  how 
the  delegates  from  Ukrainia  had  gnawed  bones  and 
gesticulated  greasily;  how,  during  the  momentary 
lull,  Aunt  Carmen  had  suggested  that  she  had  an 
open  mind  and  wished  a  free  debate  on  the  tenure 
of  the  land  —  a  phrase  continually  on  the  tongue  of 
Professor  Syle. 

That  last  had  been  the  fatal  error.  The  soviet 
had  raged  like  a  menagerie  at  feeding  time— 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


squeals,  roars,  howls,  clucks  had  set  Aunt  Carmen's 
crystal  chandeliers  to  jingling.  Everybody  spoke 
in  his  native  tongue;  Babel  was  holding  a  caucus. 
Comrade  Niki  had  stood  on  a  chair  for  two  con- 
secutive hours,  making  a  speech  all  by  himself.  The 
Ukrainians  had  clucked  together  with  dark  murder- 
ous gestures.  Epstein,  the  super-Sinn  Feiner,  had 
at  last  put  his  hobnailed  boots  on  Aunt  Carmen's 
dining  table  to  announce  that  Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shal- 
lope  was  the  great  Liberator. 

"Comrades,"  he  had  roared,  working  himself  up 
into  a  passion  of  admiration,  "the  great  estates  of 
this  so-called  democracy  must  be  seized  before  any- 
thing —  hie  —  definite  can  be  done  for  the  new  order 
of  things.  Capitalistic  property  must  either  be 
seized  or  given  to  the  proletariat  by  th'  own  free 
will  of  progreshive  capitalish  —  and  Comrade  Car- 
men is  a  progreshive  capitalish  and  good  fella." 

"Who  ever  said  I  was  going  to  give  you  my  prop- 
erty?" Aunt  Carmen  had  chirped,  paling  suddenly. 

"Ah-h-h-h-h  !"  Comrade  Alfonzo  made  this 
long-drawn  noise,  showing  his  dreadful  teeth. 
"You  see  how  they  talk  when  they  afraid  to  lose 
some-a-thing." 

"Leave  it  to  the  vote  of  the  soviet!"  Miss  Drigg 
had  roared  in  her  splendid  barytone.  "I  move  that 
this  property  be  seized  and  appropriated  as  head- 
quarters for  the  American  Soviet  Republic." 

"Are  you  all  crazy?  What  are  you  talking 
about?"  had  been  Aunt  Carmen's  tactful  way  of 
starting  a  riot. 


222  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Don't  you  think  Comrade  Carmen  should  have 
something  to  say  about  this?"  Professor  Syle  had 
urged,  having  kept  his  head  fairly  well. 

"Certainly.  She  will  have  one  vote  in  the  soviet," 
said  Comrade  Drigg.  "I  have  moved  that  this 
property  be  seized  for  the  American  Soviet  Re- 
public. Is  there  any  second  to  the  motion?'* 

Arose  then  a  ferocious  chorus  of  seconds  to  the 
motion;  whereupon  Aunt  Carmen  had  utterly  lost 
her  mind. 

"I  won't  have  such  talk  in  my  house.  You  leave 
at  once,  the  whole  ragbag  pack  of  you!"  she  had 
screamed,  "or  I'll  call  the  police." 

The  ensuing  scene  was  horrible  to  remember.  A 
quarrel  in  a  greenhouse  had  never  been  more  bois- 
terous with  crashing  glass.  Aunt  Carmen's  Span- 
ish-lace tablecloth  had  been  pulled  to  the  floor. 
Somewhere  in  the  scrimmage  Oliver  Browning  had 
been  smothered  under  the  bulky  weight  of  Miss 
Drigg,  assisted  by  wild,  wild  women.  Had  the 
soviet  been  possessed  of  a  head,  tail  or  working 
brain  the  hostess  of  the  evening  would  have  been 
slain  on  the  spot,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  the  little 
Turkish  militant  who  plucked  her  way  to  the  door 
under  the  stairs  and  had  gathered  into  her  refugee 
band  the  three  quaking  faddists  who  now  filled  the 
gloomy  shadows  of  the  fort  with  their  broken  sobs. 

"Where  do  such  people  come  from  ?"  asked  Aunt 
Carmen  in  a  hushed  voice  as  she  dusted  an  old  trunk 
with  an  ancient  scrap  of  newspaper  and  seated  her- 
self. Then,  as  though  dealing  with  the  synchro- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


nization  of  justice  with  right:  "Nobody  ever  be- 
haved so  in  my  house  before.  Did  you  ever  see 
such  table  manners?  I  shall  tell  everything  when 
the  police  come." 

"Has  anybody  notified  the  police?"  was  Emily's 
practical  suggestion  through  her  thick  veil. 

"Haven't  they  been  telephoned  to?"  shrilled 
Aunt  Carmen,  evidently  dazed  to  find  herself  in  a 
position  where  nobody  had  foreseen  her  wishes. 

"Somebody  ought  to,"  wailed  Rosamonde. 

"Well,  why  don't  you?"  suggested  her  aunt 
fiercely.  "You  know  where  the  telephone  is.  If 
you  can't  get  the  police  station  you  can  ring  up  the 
garage  or  the  gardener's  cottage.  Tell  them  to 
bring  firearms  if  they  have  any,  or  plenty  of  heavy 
tools  -  " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Carmen  !"  Rosamonde  had  sunk  down 
next  to  Mrs.  Shallope  and  was  sobbing  feebly. 

"Afraid?"  scolded  her  aunt.  "I  didn't  think  any 
Ray  wculd  be  a  coward."  And  she  remained  sit- 
ting, it  never  having  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
herself  do  the  telephoning. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Miss  El-Zelim.  "There's  a  tele- 
phone in  the  little  hall  back  of  the  linen  room." 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  snapped  Aunt  Car- 
men; but  Emily  had  already  unbolted  the  door  and 
tiptoed  through  a  space  she  knew  well  enough  to 
traverse  in  the  dark. 

Making  all  due  allowances  for  prevailing  defi- 
ciencies in  telephone  service  the  operator  was  cer- 
tainly slow  to  answer.  The  receiver  at  Emily's 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


nervous  ear  was  as  lifeless  as  so  much  clay.  Sup- 
plicate as  she  would  in  her  smothered  voice,  jingle 
as  she  might  at  the  hook,  there  came  no  response 
through  five,  ten,  fifteen  agonized  minutes.  Then 
distantly  she  heard  footsteps  growing  louder  as 
they  approached  up  the  backstairs.  Emily  was 
ashamed  of  the  little  scream  she  gave  as  she  dropped 
the  receiver  and  scuttled  back  to  the  fort,  banging 
the  door  after  her. 

"Somebody's  coming!"  she  gasped.  Whereupon 
Aunt  Carmen,  springing  like  a  tigress,  shot  the  long 
bolt,  securing  the  oaken  door. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  whispered. 

"I  heard  them  coming  up  the  backstairs." 

"Did  you  get  the  police  station?" 

"I  didn't  get  anybody,"  panted  Emily.  "I  think 
the  wires  must  be  cut.  They  were  on  the  roof  a 
long  time  this  afternoon  -  " 

"Oh." 

In  the  dim  light  Emily  could  see  Aunt  Carmen's 
fiery  eyes  a  few  inches  from  her  veil,  gazing  fixedly. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  drawled,  "that  you've 
picked  up  English  rather  rapidly." 

Providentially  at  that  instant  there  came  three 
distinct  raps  upon  the  door.  The  poor  inmates  of 
the  fort  huddled  in  silence.  Again  the  fateful  tap- 
ping. 

"Mrs.  Shallope,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  came  Ow- 
ley's  polite  voice  from  without. 

No  response.  Glancing  round  Emily  could  see 
in  an  instant  that  her  relative  was  beyond  words. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  225 

Therefore  she  got  on  her  knees  before  the  large 
old-fashioned  keyhole,  and,  speaking  with  the  great- 
est distinctness,  said : 

"Is  that  you,  Owley?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Ray,"  was  the  disconcerting  reply. 

"I'm  Miss  El-Zelim." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss.  Could  I  speak  to  Mrs. 
Shallope?" 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Ray— Miss  El-Zelim." 

"Do  you  come  as  a  friend  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Ray.    I  assure  you,  miss " 

"Let  him  in,"  came  Aunt  Carmen's  feeble  moan 
from  the  background. 

Owley's  tall,  servantly  figure  was  admitted 
through  a  crack  in  the  door,  and  he  stood  silent  be- 
fore the  interned  group  until  the  bolt  had  again 
been  shot.  Somehow  his  correct  appearance  had  a 
heartening  effect.  It  was  a  reminder  of  the  domes- 
tic order  which  had  once  reigned  in  this  disrupted 
home. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful,  Owley!"  moaned  his  mistress 
from  her  trunk. 

"Quite  unusual,  if  I  might  say  so,  madam,"  he 
agreed  in  his  soothing  tone. 

"I'm  so  grateful  to  see  you  alive,"  admitted  Aunt 
Carmen,  trembling  violently.  "But  can't  you  do 
anything,  Owley?  Can't  you  get  to  the  garage 
or " 

"I'm  in  rather  a  difficult  position,  madam,"  he 
temporized.  "There  was  some  debate  at  first  as  to 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


whether  they  should  do  me  in  and  throw  me  out 
of  a  window.  Finally  the  Noes  'ad  it,  so  they  took 
a  vote  and  decided  to  make  me  president  of  the 
soviet." 

"Make  you  what?'*  came  at  least  three  voices  at 
once. 

"President  of  the  Soviet,  madam.  Not  that  I 
was  a-seeking  the  honor,"  he  added  modestly.  "I 
have  often  gone  to  their  meetings  in  New  York, 
madam  -  " 

"Owley!"  gasped  Mrs.  Shallope,  outraged. 
"How  dare  you  do  such  a  thing?" 

"Wishing  to  give  no  offense,  madam,  you  'ave 
often  urged  me  to  attend  your  church  and  to  vote 
your  ticket  in  general  elections.  It  was  but  the 
force  of  'igh  example.  So  I  'ave  attended  their 
meetings,  and  very  pretty  affairs  they  were,  too. 
Nothing  rough,  so  to  speak.  But  to-night  —  my 
word!  I  am  fair  outdone,  madam.  All  very  well 
in  their  place,  say  I,  but  too  apparently  these  pro- 
letariat are  quite  unused  to  making  revolutions  in 
gentlemen's  'ouses.  So  I  left  the  meeting,  pretend- 
ing like  that  I  would  obtain  them  more  of  their 
filthy  drink  —  vodka  —  and  I  came  to  you  by  the 
backstairs." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  Browning  boy  might  have 
done  something,"  suggested  Aunt  Carmen,  getting 
round  to  her  old  grudge. 

"  'E  might,  madam.  But  in  the  first  rush  th6 
short-'aired  lady  —  'er  they  call  Miss  Drigg  —  bashed 
'im  with  a  chair.  And  now  'e's  tied  with  napkins 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  227 

and  laid  away,  two  foreign  nihilists  a-guarding  the 
door." 

"What  are  they  debating  on  now?"  asked  Car- 
men, justified  in  the  assumption  that  the  soviet  must 
be  debating  about  something. 

"They  'ave  just  finished  the  question  of  state 
marriages,  madam,  and  'ave  decided  to  begin  them 
'ere,  this  being  the  American  Red  Republic,  so  to 
speak." 

The  statement,  made  in  Owley's  best  manner, 
managed  to  convey  a  threat  which  sent  a  chill 
through  the  marrow  of  the  four  helpless  females. 

"Isn't  this  a  peculiar  time  and  place  to  be  ar- 
ranging about  state  marriages?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Finnessey. 

"Times  and  places  are  never  peculiar  to  the 
hemancipated,  madam.  Such  of  the  Comrades  as 
are  married  are  quite  dissatisfied — you  can  tell  this 
by  observing  the  ladies.  And  Comrade  Epstein  'as 
convinced  them  that  the  capitalistic  matrimonial 
laws  is  all  wrong.  Quite  right,  too,  I  might  say, 
'aving  ventured  twice  myself.  Therefore,  they  are 
taking  time  by  the  forelock,  so  to  speak,  and  'ave 
drawn  lots  as  to  which  shall  marry  which." 

"Which  what?"  asked  Aunt  Carmen  in  a  thin, 
hard  voice. 

"Which  of  you  ladies.  They  'ave  declared  capi- 
talistic marriages  null  and  void.  You  ladies  being 
unmarried,  hemancipatedly  speaking,  you  are 
therefore  to  be  chosen  for  the  'oly  bonds." 


228  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"You  say  they've  drawn  lots?"  asked  Rosa- 
monde  hoarsely. 

"It  'ad  to  be  decided  that  way.  Professor  Syle 
spoke  up  early  and  claimed  Miss — this  Turkish 
lady,  I  should  say — but  she  was  very  popular " 

"Oh."  That  comment  came  from  the  parched 
lips  of  Rosamonde  Valiant. 

"And  she  »vas  finally  drawn  by  Comrade  Tony, 
the  Eyetalian  person.  Mrs.  Valiant  was  next  raf- 
fled off  to  Comrade  Smole,  the  small  gentleman, 
who  being  already  married  to  Miss  Drigg  must 
needs  divorce  that  lady,  which  put  'er  in  a  state  of 
mind.  Then  came  Mrs.  Finnessey,  one  of  the 
Ukrainian  foreigners  drawing  the  lucky  straw." 

"Is  there  no  law  in  the  land?"  spluttered  Aunt 
Carmen.  Then  a  wistful  expression  came  over  her 
haggard  old  face.  "Did  anybody  have  the  imperti- 
nence to — to  drag  my  name  into  this  disgraceful 
transaction  ?" 

"You  were  spoke  for  somewhat  late,  madam," 
said  Owley  consolingly,  "by  Comrade  Alfonzo." 

"Well,  they  can't  marry  us,"  remarked  Aunt  Car- 
men, as  though  that  settled  everything.  "There 
isn't  a  minister  of  the  gospel  within  fifteen  miles 
and  I  have  forbidden  my  cars  to  leave  the  garage." 

"According  to  the  soviet,"  decreed  Owley  in 
measured  tones,  "the  ceremony  'as  already  took 
place." 

When  Owley  had  left,  slamming  the  door  after 
him  as  by  a  sudden  alarm,  the  refugees  again  drew 
the  bolt  and  settled  themselves  to  despair.  Rosa- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  229 

monde,  apparently  a  wreck,  lay  across  a  box,  her 
face  in  Mrs.  Finnessey's  lap.  Emily  sat  beside 
Aunt  Carmen  on  her  trunk,  and  the  old  lady,  look- 
ing a  score  more  years  than  she  was  entitled  to, 
suddenly  reached  out  for  the  young  hand. 

"It's  all  Rosamonde's  fault,"  she  croaked,  "dip- 
ping into  these  dangerous  beliefs  and  bringing  them 
to  my  house.  And  what  is  the  world  coming  to? 
My  servants  —  some  of  them  I've  had  for  twenty 
years  —  betraying  me  in  that  insolent  manner  ?  And 
what  is  Owley  doing,  associating  with  Bolsheviks 
and  all  sorts  of  disreputable  people?" 

"The  same  thing  that  you  are  doing,  auntie 
dear." 

"Emily,  take  off  that  foolish  veil!"  Aunt  Car- 
men had  reached  peevishly  up  and  torn  away  the 
slight  disguise.  "Now  tell  me,  if  you  don't 


Again  three  taps  upon  the  oaken  door,  loud, 
commanding  taps  this  time.  Emily  slunk  forward 
and  put  her  eye  to  the  keyhole.  It  was  Owley 
again. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  he  said  in  a  queer, 
strained  voice  as  soon  as  Emily  had  opened  to  him, 
"but  the  Comrades  'ave  decided  to  abandon  the 


'ouse." 


"It's  time,"  snapped  Carmen. 
"But  before  they  go,"  he  assured  her,  "they  in- 
tend to  burn  it." 

"Burn  it!"  three  dry  throats  echoed  horrifically. 
"After  a  sizable  debate,  balancing  pro  and  con, 


230 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

they  decided  that  the  estate  would  be  a  bit  'ard  to 
keep  up,  on  the  one  'and,  but  on  the  other  it  should 
not  be  allowed  to  go  back  to  the  capitalistic  class 
from  which  it  came.  Therefore  burning  was  de- 
cided upon  as  an  hintellectual  compromise.  The 
Ukrainian  kommissars  are  now  in  the  basement 
searching  for  hoil  while  the  majority  of  the  soviet 
are  piling  furniture  in  the  reception  'all.  It  is  a 
bitter  sight,  madam,  and  offends  my  sense  of  hor- 
der." 

"Owley!"  Aunt  Carmen  gave  an  infernal 
shriek.  "Are  you  going  to  stand  round  and  let 
them " 

"I  should  inform  the  garage/'  he  explained,  "but 
they  'ave  shut  off  every  avenue  of  hescape." 

It  was  Emily  Ray  who  shot  out  of  the  gloomy 
room  and,  after  ducking  under  Owley 's  elbow,  re- 
adjusted her  veil  and  went  charging  through  the 
darkness  and  down  the  backstairs. 

It  was  indeed  a  bitter  sight,  as  Comrade  Owley 
had  described  it,  for  as  Emily  crept  along  a 
gallery  and  looked  down  into  the  wide  magnifi- 
cence of  the  reception  hall  she  was  witness  to  a 
scene  unique — fortunately — on  our  serene  and 
happy  continent. 

It  was  Siegfried,  Beowulf  and  Jabberwocky  all 
combined  into  a  grotesquery  of  horror.  On  Aunt 
Carmen's  proud  piano — the  piano  which  was  all 
gold  leaf  with  carven  sea  divinities  supporting  it 
from  beneath — such  members  of  the  soviet  as  had 
not  fallen  asleep  were  piling  chairs,  tables,  cabinets. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Professor  Syle  stood  at  center  stage,  his  arms 
folded,  his  attitude  Napoleonic.  All  oratory  was 
stilled,  save  for  that  of  Comrade  Niki,  who  in  a 
peewee  frenzy  had  mounted  an  overturned  sofa  and 
was  shouting  shrilly  in  Japanese. 

It  was  one  of  those  deliriums  of  heroic  action 
that  took  Emily  Ray  along  the  gallery  and  down 
the  service  stairs  which  led  to  the  butler's  pantry. 
Although  the  craven  Owley  had  dramatized  the 
melodrama  with  the  explanation  that  "they  had  shut 
off  every  avenue  of  escape/'  she  knew  of  a  des- 
perate way  out.  She  found  the  butler's  pantry  in 
darkness;  the  Ukrainian  kommissars,  as  she  had 
suspected,  had  abandoned  their  posts  in  order  to 
seek  fuel  for  the  pyre. 

Once  inside  the  narrow  glass-shelved  room  she 
was  easily  guided  by  a  faint  light  from  a  small  win- 
dow; and  that  window  she  knew  opened  ten  feet 
above  a  driveway  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  It  was 
toward  that  window  she  glided  and  had  just 
clutched  the  sill  and  braced  her  knee  against  a  con- 
venient sink  when  strong  arms  reached  out  of  a 
dark  corner  and  pulled  her  back,  while  a  rough 
hand,  clapped  roughly  over  her  mouth,  smothered 
her  cries. 

It  was  a  hard  silent  battle  in  the  dark.  Finally 
suffocation  overcame  her  and  she  found  herself 
weakening,  falling  when  her  assailant  stumbled  to 
the  wall  and  pressed  the  electric  button,  flooding  the 
space  with  light. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"Well,  I'll  eat  my  hat!"  she  heard  a  deep  voice 
in  her  ear. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  found  herself  looking 
into  the  face  of  Oliver  Browning. 

"You  fool!"  she  whispered,  "what  are  you  try- 
ing to  do?  Don't  you  know  they're  burning  down 
the  house?" 

"I  suspected  it,"  he  answered,  with  an  agonizing 
deliberateness.  "They  had  me  hog-tied  with  nap- 
kins and  I'd  just  chewed  the  last  one  loose  when 
you  butted  in.  I  thought  you  were  -  " 

"Never  mind  what  I  was,"  she  urged.  "You  can 
get  out  of  that  window.  There  are  chauffeurs  and 
things  in  the  garage  -  " 

But  she  had  no  opportunity  to  finish  her  explana- 
tion, for  Oliver  was  swinging  himself  through  a 
space  which  seemed  too  narrow  for  his  plump  body. 


XVI 

WHEN  Emily  got  back  to  the  reception  hall  she 
found  the  soviet  suffering  from  another  hitch  in 
its  program.  Comrade  Elsa,  her  eyes  bright  with 
murder  lust,  was  waving  a  two-gallon  can  as  she 
danced  round  and  round. 

"It's  olive  oil,"  she  chanted,  "but  it  burns.  Lord, 
what  a  blaze  it  will  make!" 

"Comrades !"  Professor  Syle,  who  had  come  out 
of  his  self -contemplating  trance,  was  pounding  for 
order.  "Before  we  take  final  action  it  might  be 
well  for  the  soviet  to  go  into  executive  session  and 
reconsider." 

"Bah!  A  soviet  never  reconsiders!"  This  gem 
of  thought  was  contributed  by  Comrade  Alfonzo, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  floor  nursing  an  empty 
vodka  bottle. 

"No,  no!  Reconsideration  is  the  death  of  revo- 
lution!" bellowed  Comrade  Epstein.  Whereupon 
such  members  of  the  soviet  as  were  not  asleep  set 
up  a  barking  like  a  pack  of  small  dogs  surrounding 
a  treed  cat. 

Emily  took  her  station  beside  Professor  Syle, 
quite  unheeded  by  the  soviet.  It  was  probable  that 
they  had  never  noticed  her  disappearance. 

"I  do  not  deny  that  the  destruction  of  this  prop- 
erty is  right  and  just — quite  in  line  with  our  pro- 

233 


234 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

gram  of  liberation,"  Professor  Syle  was  chanting 
against  the  general  clamor.  "But  should  we  not 
husband  our  strength  for  the  day  of  the  general 
uprising?" 

"What  would  Trotzky  do?"  howled  one  of  the 
Eskimo-faced  Russians,  who  stood  leaning  against 
the  pyre,  his  arms  round  two  Ukrainian  komfkis- 
sws. 

"Trotzky  is,  like  all  great  liberators,  an  oppor- 
tunist. He  waited  till  the  time  was  ripe  and  then 
surrendered  to  the  great-hearted  people  of  Ger- 
many." 

"We  can't  do  that,"  objected  Comrade  Smole. 
"Germany  is  busy." 

"Are  you  going  to  stand  here  shilly-shallying 
when  the  hour  has  come?"  roared  Miss  Drigg,  fac- 
ing Syle  contemptuously. 

"No  serious  action  should  be  taken  without  de- 
bate," Syle  demurred. 

"Bah !"  she  cried,  "you  are  a  man  of  straw !  It's 
just  the  way  you  run  the  Rcvw  Deal.  No  policy." 

"Well,  let's  start  the  fire  and  argue  afterward," 
suggested  Comrade  Elsa,  beginning  to  unscrew  the 
oil  can  as  she  advanced  toward  the  pyramid  of 
furniture.  "We  can't  take  this  house  away  with 
us,  but  we  can  remove  it  forever  from  the  clutches 
of  capitalism." 

Emily  Ray  decided  to  do  something,  anything, 
immediately.  Even  though  the  matches  were  never 
struck,  there  was  sufficient  oil  in  the  can  to  spoil 
several  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  Aunt  Carmen's 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  235 

rugs  and  upholstery.  She  darted  forward  and 
clutched  the  wrist  which  was  about  to  project  the 
greasy  essence  of  Tuscany,  regardless  of  conse- 
quences. 

"Comrade!"  she  spoke  so  decisively  that  every 
eye  in  the  room  was  upon  her,  "what  you  do?  Do 
you  know  how  you  make  traitor  of  our  cause?" 

"Traitor?"  shrieked  Elsa,  all  but  dropping  the 
can. 

"Oh,  surely  is !  Would  you  do  something  to  give 
money — big,  large  money — to  capitalists?" 

"What's  the  girl  talking  about?"  asked  Comrade 
Elsa — a  strange  question  to  ask  in  the  realm  of 
Bolshevikia. 

"Because!"  Emily  had  now  struck  her  cinema- 
tographic Oriental  pose.  "As  sure  you  burn  this 
house,  so  sure  you  give  feefty  t'ousand  dollar  to 
Mrs.  Shallope,  so-called  owner." 

"Please  explain  yourself,"  urged  Professor  Syle, 
obviously  hopeful  of  avoiding  arson. 

"Insurance!" 

"Insurance?"  Even  Comrade  Tony  awoke  to 
repeat  the  dread  word. 

"Mrs.  Shallope  tell  me  that  her  house  would  be 
better  burned  to  ground.  Why?  Because  it  has 
insured  itself  for  feefty  fousand  dollar  more  than 
Mrs.  Shallope  pay  for  eet." 

"Thank  you,  Comrade,  for  the  suggestion,"  said 
Professor  Syle,  using  the  same  precise  voice  he 
would  use  in  addressing  a  bright  pupil  in  the  lec- 
ture room. 


236  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

'"^^™^^^ 

"Shucks!"  said  Comrade  Elsa,  screwing  the  cover 
back  on  the  oil  can. 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  know,"  demanded  Com- 
rade Smole  disgustedly,  "what  in  hell  we're  here 
for." 

"If  we  consider  this  matter  some  more "  be- 
gan Emily,  whereupon  Professor  Syle  interrupted. 

"It  would  be  more  useful,  possibly,  to  put  the 
matter  in  the  form  of  a  dignified  debate.  Resolved : 
That  the  Destruction  of  Insured  Property  is  of 
Benefit  to  the  Revolution.  Suppose,  Comrade  Elsa, 
that  you  take  the  affirmative  and  Comrade  El-Zelim 
the  negative.  For  seconds,  I  suggest " 

The  point  of  seconds  was  never  decided.  It 
seemed  that  a  dozen  doors  opened  at  once  and  at 
each  opening  there  appeared  a  grinning,  muscular, 
unemancipated  specimen  of  the  capitalistic  em- 
ployee. A  painful  silence  fell  over  the  soviet  as 
Oliver  Browning,  swashbuckling  as  nearly  as  a  fat 
boy  can  swashbuckle,  strode  into  the  room  and 
stood,  legs  far  apart,  an  enormous  revolver  playing 
over  a  broad  arc. 

"You  will  put  up  your  hands,  please,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"My  God!"  prayed  Comrade  Elsa,  and  sat  ab- 
ruptly on  the  polished  floor. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  Professor  Syle 
lost  both  his  platform  manner  and  his  ruddy  com- 
plexion at  the  inquiry. 

"The  Federal  agents  are  outside,"  Oliver  ex- 
plained pleasantly,  "and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  237 

wouldn't  be  better  to  come  without  making  any 
trouble." 

"This  is  persecution !"  came  the  meek,  birdlike 
tones  of  Comrade  Hattie. 

"No  doubt,"  declared  Oliver. 

"I  court  imprisonment!"  shouted  Comrade  Ep- 
stein. "If  jail  is  good  enough  for  Eugene  V. 
Debs " 

"Exactly,"  said  Oliver,  "it's  good  enough  for 
you.  The  line  forms  to  the  left." 

Mrs.  Shallope's  garage  and  garden  force  now 
advanced  and  drew  a  circle  round  such  of  the  Com- 
rades as  were  still  standing.  No  revolution  was 
ever  broken  with  less  to-do.  As  the  defeated  Red 
Army  was  marching  out  single  file  and  under  guard, 
Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope  appeared  on  the  balcony 
and  reclaimed  her  property. 

"Take  them  to  the  garage,  Riley,"  she  ordained 
sharply,  addressing  her  head  chauffeur.  "Don't 
permit  them  in  my  house  another  minute.  Who  in 
the  world  ever  asked  these — these  impossible  peo- 
ple?" 

Oliver  could  not  answer  her,  for  he  was  busily 
engaged  in  dragging  the  sleeping  kommissars  from 
the  places  where  they  had  fallen  and  depositing 
them  in  a  neat  pile  at  the  center  of  the  rug. 


XVII 

THE  soviet  week-end  closed  officially  if  prema- 
turely early  Sunday  morning ;  possibly  it  developed 
a  few  more  sore  heads  and  hearts  than  the  average 
more  formal  week-end  develops.  Possibly  not. 

At  any  rate  when  Oliver  Browning,  still  armed 
with  the  damaged  Spanish  War  revolver  he  had 
borrowed  from  the  gardener,  poked  his  head  into 
the  garage  shortly  after  sunrise,  he  found  Pro- 
fessor Syle  sitting  isolated  on  an  oil  box  while  his 
erstwhile  comrades  still  debated  in  the  confusion 
of  tongues.  Comrade  Niki,  being  of  a  practical 
race,  had  turned  on  the  hose  and  squatted  under 
it,  anointing  his  wiry  pompadour  with  a  cooling  jet. 
A  great  depression  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  Bol- 
shevikia;  and,  occupying  the  position  of  a  deposed 
kaiser,  Professor  Syle  gloomed  lonesomely  and 
seemed  to  pray  for  death. 

"Tr-r-raitor !"  snarled  Comrade  Alfonzo,  as  he 
snapped  his  fingers  under  Syle's  nose  and  rolled 
red  eyes  below  the  dirty  bandanna  he  had  tied  round 
his  headache. 

"This  is  merely  another  capitalistic  plot/'  moaned 
Miss  Drigg  from  where  she  sat,  holding  the  head 
of  her  husband,  Mr.  Smole. 

"There  is  an  eight-twelve  train  leaving  for  New 
York/'  said  Oliver,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  and 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  239 

struggled  to  suppress  a  grin.  "Mrs.  Shallope  is 
willing  to  buy  your  tickets  and  send  you  to  the  sta- 
tion." 

"Free?"  cried  Comrade  Walter,  undoubling  him- 
self rapidly  and  coming  to  his  feet. 

"This  is  freedom's  headquarters,"  replied  Oliver, 
now  giving  way  to  mirth.  "Free  tickets,  free  ride 
to  the  station." 

He  had  enjoyed  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  kitchen 
and  his  spirits  leaped  accordingly. 

"Then  we  go!"  howled  the  Ukrainian  komwis- 
sars,  attempting  to  rush  the  door. 

"Just  a  minute."  Oliver  had  leveled  the  empty 
revolver  and  stood  ready  to  bang  the  door  in  their 
faces.  The  entire  soviet  had  now  arisen,  faces  hag- 
gard and  crestfallen. 

"I  shall  go  to  jail,'*  announced  Comrade  Ep- 
stein. "It  will  be  martyrdom." 

"Every  man  to  his  taste,"  agreed  Oliver.  "Who 
else  wants  to  be  turned  over  to  the  department  of 
justice?" 

"Are  your  automobiles  ready?"  asked  Professor 
Syle,  putting  on  his  hat. 

"There  are  just  one  or  two  things  to  be  ar- 
ranged," went  on  Oliver.  "If  you  are  agreeable 
to  Mrs.  Shallope's  terms " 

"Name  them,"  commanded  Syle,  folding  his  arms 
anew. 

"No  name  them  to  him!"  demanded  Comrade 
Tony  with  a  dangerous  shrug.  "He  no- ting  now 
to  us.  He  verra  bad-a  man." 


240  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Name  them  to  me,"  suggested  little  Comrade 
Hattie  in  her  birdlike  voice. 

"Well,"  said  Oliver,  "Mrs.  Shallope  is  willing 
to  let  you  go  without  prosecution  if  you  promise 
to  say  nothing  about  last  night's  meeting." 

"Bah!  Dat  ees  coercion!"  hissed  Comrade  Al- 
fonzo. 

"Very  well,"  agreed  Oliver,  "then  we  can  take 
care  of  you  until  the  Department  is  notified." 

"I  no  said  I  don't  promise,"  he  muttered,  and 
sat  down. 

"Thank  you.  Several  revolutions  have  been 
turned  the  wrong  way  by  that  Russian  gin-water," 
suggested  Comrade  Niki. 

"We  are  all  agreed,"  responded  Mr.  Smole,  hav- 
ing come  out  of  his  trance. 

"That's  good,  and  the  first  time  you've  ever  been 
that  way,  I  guess.  Of  course  you  ought  to  take 
some  sort  of  oath " 

"On  our  honor  as  Bolsheviks,"  suggested  Com- 
rade Walter. 

"Shut  up!"  snapped  Comrade  Epstein.  "You 
are  no  longer  a  Bolshevik.  However,  we  prom- 


ise." 


"Very  well,"  proclaimed  Oliver,  and  ten  minutes 
later  three  automobiles,  laden  down  with  a  freight 
of  human  misery,  went  slowly  out  through  the 
Shallope  gate. 

By  eleven  o'clock  Emily  had  managed  to  get 
Rosamonde  and  Mrs.  Finnessey  out  of  bed,  to  dress 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


them  and  start  them  downstairs,  where  the  Val- 
iant car  was  waiting. 

"Do  —  do  you  think  she'll  see  me?"  moaned 
Rosamonde,  as  she  was  passing  the  door  of  Aunt 
Carmen's  apartment. 

"There's  nobody  but  Owley  to  stop  you,"  ob- 
served Emily,  her  nerves  beginning  to  wear. 

Emily  led  Rosamonde  to  a  prostrate  roll  of  mor- 
tality under  a  silken  comforter  in  a  darkened  inner 
room. 

"Is  that  you,  Thompson?"  asked  a  little  cracked 
voice  under  the  roll. 

"No,  auntie.  Thompson  left  yesterday  with  the 
other  servants." 

"Oh,  so  she  did.  And  have  the  other  beasts 
gone?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Carmen.  They  left  by  the  eight- 
twelve." 

"Good!"  There  was  a  long  silence,  then  a  little 
moan.  "Who's  to  bring  up  my  coffee?" 

"Emily  is  here,"  announced  Rosamonde  ever  so 
cheerfully. 

"Oh,  yes.  Have  her  make  it  strong.  And  tell 
her  to  ring  up  Mrs.  van  Laerens  and  the  rest  —  ' 
she'll  know  what  to  tell  them.  The  names  are  in 
my  engagement  book.  She'll  know." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Carmen." 

Rosamonde  still  lingered. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  The  old  head  was 
raised  an  inch  from  the  pillow. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"Fm  —  I'm  sorry  the  evening  turned  out  so 
badly/' 

Aunt  Carmen  sat  up  in  bed,  a  haggard  crone 
with  a  lacy  nightcap  on  one  side  of  her  sparsely 
forested  head. 

"Next  time  you  want  to  save  the  world,"  she 
croaked,  "I  wish  you  would  do  it  in  your  own 
apartment." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Carmen.  And  —  and  I  wonder  if 
there  is  anything  I  can  do." 

"You  can  go  home  and  try  to  stay  there,"  in- 
vited the  prominent  Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope  ere  she 
lay  down  and  pulled  the  covers  over  her  head. 

Within  the  hour  Long  Island  was  disappointed 
by  the  announcement,  telephoned  by  a  ladylike  sec- 
retary, to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Bodfrey  Shallope's 
radical  luncheon  had  been  postponed,  as  Mrs.  Shal- 
lope was  threatened  with  an  attack  of  Spanish  in- 
fluenza. 

"When  in  doubt  blame  the  flu,"  said  Miss  Ray 
to  Mr.  Owley,  as  she  sat  in  the  sun  room  and  won- 
dered what  she  was  expected  to  do  next. 


XVIII 

IT  was  nearly  a  week  later  that  Emily  Ray,  chair- 
lady  of  an  itinerant  Lodge  of  Sorrow,  called  upon 
Rosamonde  Valiant  and  found  her  fair  cousin 
scolding  tempestuously  over  a  bathtub  wherein 
Eustace,  grown  full  four  inches  longer  since  his  in- 
troduction to  Bolshevism,  lay  sulkily  refusing  to 
notice  the  cubes  of  steak  which  Rosamonde  was 
offering  him  on  the  end  of  a  long  §tick. 

"He's  spoiled  the  way  everything  else  is," 
stormed  Rosamonde.  "He's  got  so  he  refuses 
everything  but  goldfish — and  the  cheapest  of  them 
cost  two  seventy-five." 

"You  might  offer  him  Professor  Syle  again," 
suggested  Emily,  forgetting  her  own  worries  in  the 
contemplation  of  another's. 

"I  wish  Eustace  had  swallowed  him  when  he  had 
a  chance,"  was  Rosamonde's  gentle  prayer.  "I 
suppose  I've  got  to  stay  here  all  summer,  melting 
with  the  heat,  feeding  Eustace." 

"Isn't  Merlin  going  to  open  the  Narragansett 
house?" 

"He  sent  me  a  disgusting  letter  yesterday — 
through  his  lawyers.  He  said  that  since  the  poor 
must  stay  in  town  and  endure  the  heat,  he  didn't 
see  any  reason  why  the  rich  shouldn't  do  the  same 

243 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


and  get  used  to  the  time  when  the  Bolsheviks  will 

make  'em." 

"I  didn't  know  Merlin  could  be  so  sarcastic." 
"It's   sordid  —  sordid!"   wailed   Rosamonde,   and 

began  again  to  spoil  her  pretty  eyes. 

"It's  only  April  now,"  Emily  pointed  out,  "and 

he'll  have  lots  of  time  to  change  his  mind  before  hot 

weather  sets  in.    Come,  my  dear,  won't  you  let  me 

have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

When   they   had   settled   themselves   beside   the 

empty  birdcage  in  the  drawing-room  and  Agnes 

was  wheeling  in  the  tea  wagon,  Rosamonde  calmed 

herself  sufficiently  to  ask  : 

"Has  Aunt  Carmen  got  any  servants  yet?" 
"A  new  set,"  said  Emily,  "and  I  got  them  for 

her." 

"They're  all  satisfied,  I  suppose,  and  going  to 

stay?" 

"All  but  one.     Emily  Ray  has  quit  again." 

"Emily!     What  has  happened  now?" 

"Aunt   Carmen   was  perfect   honeydew  until   I 

engaged   a   crew   of    servants    for   her;    then    she 

went  back  to  her  old  brain  storms.      She  began 

to   hint  that   I   was  to  blame   for  the   week-end 

soviet." 

"Of  course  she  would.     But  how  did  she  work 

it  out?" 

"She  said  that  I  had  a  passion  for  running  round 

with  all  sorts  of  loose  people,  and  that  I  had  en- 

couraged Oliver  and  that  she  had  always  suspected 

Oliver  of  having  dangerous  views.    Imagine  !  Then 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  245 

she  trotted  out  Plummie  van  Laerens'  boy — you 
know,  Reggie,  the  pimply  one  who  collects  chorus 
girls.  She  told  me  here  was  a  chance  to  get  back 
into  decent  society.  So  I  went  round  and  saw  Ow- 
ley." 

"Owley!"    Rosamonde  lifted  her  eyebrows. 

"I  always  consult  Owley  on  really  important  mat- 
ters. He  quoted  a  lot  from  the  classics,  but 
the  burden  of  his  song  was,  'Beat  it  while  the 
beatin's  good.'  So  here  I  am  again  in  the  great 
world." 

"But,  my  dear,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"The  same,"  said  Emily  lightly. 

"Why  don't  you  stay  here  with  me  and  Eustace  ?" 
asked  the  plaintive  Rosamonde. 

"That's  awfully  good  of  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I 
couldn't,"  said  Emily,  hesitating  to  add  that  she 
was  done  with  rich  women's  bounty.  "But,  Rosa 
dear,  why  couldn't  I  go  back  to  the  studio  until  I 
found  something  to  do?" 

"You're  perfectly  welcome  to,"  replied  her  cou- 
sin with  a  shrug.  "I  haven't  been  near  the  horrid 
den  since  that — that  night "  Her  visible  shud- 
der brought  uncanny  recollections  of  a  flight  from 
a  matrimonial  soviet  and  a  gruesome  hour  in  the 
Shallope's  colonial  fortress.  "It  has  bred  nothing 
but  trouble,  and  I  never  want  to  see  the  place 
again." 

"It  could  be  made  very  cozy,"  Emily  explained, 
"with  a  few  of  the  red  draperies  down." 


246  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  paid  three  months'  rent  in  advance.  It's 
leased  for  a  year.  You're  welcome  to  it  as  long 
as  you  care  to  stay.  I've  locked  it  up  and  you 
might  just  as  well  be  using  it." 

"Rosa,  you're  a  duck!"  cried  Emily.  "And  now 
give  me  the  key  and  let  me  get  back  to  my 
•home." 

"I  hope  you  won't  let  them  impose  on  you,"  was 
Rosamonde's  friendly  warning,  as  Emily  took  the 
key  and  was  departing. 

"You  haven't  got  my  idea  at  all,"  laughed  'Emily, 
and  rang  for  the  elevator. 

She  expected  to  find  number  eighteen  Pomander 
Place  wearing  the  blank,  blind  look  of  a  deserted 
home.  Instead  the  scene  was  teeming  with  life. 
As  soon  as  she  entered  the  bare  hall  she  heard 
heavy  footfalls  and  beheld  Comrade  Epstein  and 
Miss  Drigg's  husband  locked  in  a  passion  of  argu- 
ment. 

"England,  who  is  responsible  for  the  war,  should 
be  forced  to  pay  an  indemnity  to  the  Russian  soviet 
government ' ' 

"Hel-lo!"  cried  Miss  Drigg's  husband,  rushing 
forward  behind  two  open  palms.  "We  thought  the 
capitalists  had  got  you!" 

"Not  yet,"  announced  Emily.  "What's  going  on 
upstairs — a  party?" 

"Just  an  informal  debate,"  explained  Comrade 
Epstein. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 247 

"That's  the  same  thing,"  said  Emily,  and  to  their 
amazement  brushed  by  the  Comrades  and  went 
skipping  up  the  stairs. 

Her  first  act  upon  reaching  the  landing  was  to 
tear  the  pretty  placard  "Our  Community"  off  the 
door.  Her  first  impression,  gazing  through  that 
door,  was  that  of  an  amazing  disorder.  Two  of  the 
pinkish  curtains  were  hanging  limp  and  ragged 
from  Aunt  Carmen's  smart  valances.  Scraps  of 
toast,  crushed  cigarettes,  empty  olive  jars,  torn 
pamphlets  littered  the  field  above  which  contending 
voices  could  be  heard. 

"Of  course  Germany  should  be  held  blameless 

"  "How  compensate  mothers  of  illegitimate 

children  when "  "A  proper  prison  term  will 

bring  any  millionaire  to  his  senses "  "Call  a 

general  strike  and  see  what  happens." 

Under  a  halo  of  tobacco  smoke  Miss  Drigg, 
Comrade  Elsa  and  Comrade  Alfonzo  were  visible, 
sprawled  in  a  row  on  the  divan. 

"Comrade  Emily!"  cried  Miss  Drigg's  deep 
voice,  as  the  short-haired  revolutionary  rushed  for- 
ward, "welcome  to  our  club." 

"Your  club?"  Emily  stepped  back  and  refused 
the  proffered  hand. 

"Is  there  anything  extraordinary  about  that?" 
growled  Miss  Drigg,  her  coarse  complexion  deep- 
ening to  a  beet  red. 

"Not  much.  Only  it's  not  a  club  and  it's  not 
yours." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"What  is  it,  if  I  might  ask?"  Miss  Drigg  glared 
like  a  professional  wrestler  about  to  grapple. 

"It's  a  home  and  it  belongs  to  me/'  announced 
Emily,  regardless  of  Alfonzo's  dangerous  "Bah!" 

"Comrade  Emily,"  roared  Miss  Drigg  in  her  best 
platform  voice,  "what,  if  I  might  ask,  are  your 
views  on  the  distribution  of  property?" 

"The  same  as  yours,"  announced  Emily.  "I 
don't  mind  seeing  property  divided  when  it  belongs 
to  somebody  else." 

"Capitalista  !"  snarled  Alfonzo. 

"I'm  not  now,  but  I'm  going  to  be.  Now  good 
afternoon,  all  of  you.  Please  close  the  door  on  the 
outside.  There's  a  bell  on  it,  if  you'll  notice,  and 
next  time  you  want  to  call,  please  ring." 

"You  shall  suffer  for  this  under  the  revolution," 
threatened  Miss  Drigg,  bouncing  toward  the  door. 

"I'm  willing  to  wait,"  smiled  Emily. 

"You'll  hear  from  us  in  the  Raw  Deal,"  was  Miss 
Drigg's  final  threat  as,  accompanied  by  Alfonzo, 
she  departed.  But  the  gaunt,  bag-draped  figure  of 
Comrade  Elsa  lingered.  Her  eyes  were  melancholy 
and  black-circled  ;  the  pasty  quality  of  her  skin  and 
the  hollows  in  her  cheeks  proclaimed  long  years  of 
underfeeding. 

"What  did  she  mean  about  the  Raw  Deal?"  Em- 
ily could  not  help  asking.  "She  talks  like  an  edi- 
tor." 

"She  is,"  moaned  Elsa;  then  drawled  in  her 
dreary  monotone:  "I'm  glad  you're  back.  It's  been 
pretty  lonesome  here  since  you  left,  with  the  whole 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 249 

pack  howling  like  wolves  and  everything  going  to 
rack  and  ruin." 

"Under  soviet  control?"  asked  Emily,  amused 
out  of  her  ill  temper. 

"Soviet  control!"  sniffed  Elsa.  "They  couldn't 
run  a  corner  grocery,  let  alone  manage  the  world. 
Talk,  talk!  I  wish  I'd  been  born  deaf ." 

"Why,  Elsa!"  Emily  was  genuinely  shocked  at 
this  spiritual  slump ;  but  her  concern  increased  when 
the  disillusioned  spinster  sank  down  upon  a  broken- 
legged  chair  and  gave  way  to  moisty  sobs. 

"I'm  deserted,"  she  gurgled,  "stranded.  Com- 
rade H-H-Hattie's  left  me  and  they've  k-k-kicked 
out  Comrade  Walter  and  I'm  all  alone." 

"What's  happened  to  Comrade  Hattie?"  was  the 
obvious  question,  to  which  at  last  came  the  broken 
reply: 

"After  I've  sheltered  and  fed  and  protected  that 
girl" — Hattie  was  fifty  if  a  day,  but  Elsa  always 
referred  to  her  as  a  girl — "and — and  made  a  home 
for  her,  she  married  one  of  the  Ukrainian  kommis- 
sars — the  short  one  with  the  beard — and  they've 
gone  to  Cincinnati  to  start  a  revolution." 

She  became  inarticulate,  weeping  suds.  There 
was  something  terrible  in  the  spectacle  of  this  bleak 
spinster  weeping  for  the  loss  of  a  spinster  as  bleak 
as  herself.  Her  grayish  bobbed  hair  fluttered 
loosely  with  every  sob ;  tears  running  down  between 
her  skinny  fingers  moistened  the  dingy  surface  of 
her  old  smock  frock. 

"You've  still  got  your  work  at  the  school,"  said 


250 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^"••^^ 

Emily  with  a  kind  hypocrisy,  as  she  put  her  arm 
across  the  heaving,  emaciated  shoulder.  Where- 
upon the  strange  creature  wept  more  wildly  than 
before. 

"Bunk!"  she  cried  at  last;  and  again,  "Bunk!" 

Then  she  arose  and  charged  out  of  the  studio, 
banging  the  door  after  her. 

What  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  Elsa's  wintry 
dream?  Emily  wasted  no  time  in  idle  guessing, 
but  got  a  broom  and  attacked  the  pigpen  which  had 
once  been  the  home  of  freedom.  She  had  got  the 
trash  in  a  pile  and  was  sorting  the  noncombustibles 
from  the  combustibles,  preparatory  to  a  great  cre- 
mation in  the  little  round-bellied  stove,  when  the 
doorbell  rang.  She  hesitated,  dreading  another  pes- 
tiferous soviet,  and  when  she  at  last  opened  to  a 
repeated  ring  she  peered  cautiously  through  a  crack 
to  behold  Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle.  The  rec- 
ognition was  not  immediate,  for  he  seemed  to  have 
faded  all  over  into  a  dingy  gray.  His  suit,  his  hat, 
his  shoes,  his  necktie  were  of  the  prevailing  dust 
color.  Like  Rosamonde's  studio  he  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  a  sad  disrepair  during  one  week  of  soviet 
mismanagement. 

"Why,  Comrade  Walter !"  she  cried,  trying  to  put 
a  wealth  of  welcome  into  her  tone.  "Come  in. 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"My,  I'm  glad  you're  back!"  he  groaned,  and 
staggered  into  the  room. 

Appreciating  in  a  flash  how  similar  his  words 
were  to  those  of  the  disappointed  Elsa,  she  studied 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  251 

him  in  the  full  light  of  the  window.  His  chin  was 
a  motley  stubble  of  red  and  gray;  his  eyes  were  in- 
flamed, their  pupils  dull;  his  usually  immaculate 
hands  were  grimy,  the  nails  black-edged.  Her  first 
impression  was  that  the  great  intellectual  had  been 
drinking,  but  as  he  shuffled  wearily  toward  the 
divan  and  sank  down  on  its  springs  she  reserved 
her  diagnosis. 

"Well,"  he  said,  looking  up  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"you  see  in  me  a  leader  without  an  army — Moses 
kicked  out  of  his  wilderness." 

"Have  you  really  quarreled  with  the  Comrades?" 
she  asked,  truly  sorry. 

"They've  quarreled  with  me,"  he  explained  with 
a  mirthless  laugh.  "That  Long  Island  affair.  That 
little  rattlesnake  Smole  and  his  wife  did  for  me.  It 
seems  they've  been  ambitious  all  along  to  get  con- 
trol of  the  Raw  Deal.  Smole  also  thinks  he  can 
lecture,  and  he's  been  pulling  all  sorts  of  wires  to 
get  my  place " 

"Ah,"  said  she  softly.  "So  there  are  wires  in 
Utopia!" 

"Wires!"  he  stormed.  "It's  all  wires.  They 
were  only  waiting  for  a  chance  to  stab  me,  so  when 
they  got  back  from  that  Long  Island  nightmare 
they  reported  to  the  directors  that  I  had  betrayed 
them  to  the  capitalists.  Consequently  Smole, 
Driggs  and  Company  are  now  running  my  paper, 
my  lectures  have  been  canceled,  my  books  have  been 
taken  out  of  the  school,  and  here  I  am." 

To   Emily   Ray,   the   professional   theorist   had 


252  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

never  seemed  so  nearly  human  as  he  did  at  that 
moment,  struggling  in  the  throes  of  a  worldly  prob- 
lem. 

"It's  all  the  fault  of  the  competitive  system," 
Emily  was  so  cruel  as  to  suggest. 

"Don't  rub  it  in!"  he  implored.  "But  I  will  ad- 
mit there  is  more  competition  than  anything  else 
in  the  whole  Bolshevik  mess.  They're  as  jealous 
as  opera  singers.  Lord  knows  I  did  my  best  to  keep 
that  house  party  quiet;  it  was  your  aunt's  horrible 
vodka  that  did  the  damage — that  and  a  conspiracy 
against  me.  They  only  started  that  soviet  to  get 
me  in  wrong,  I  tell  you." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  Com- 
rade Walter?" 

"Don't  call  me  Comrade  Walter!" 

"What  shall  I  call  you?" 

"Call  me  Ichabod!"  he  groaned,  and  covered  his 
wretched  face.  And  after  a  spell  of  moody  silence : 
"Where  are  we  going  and  what  are  we  doing? 
Rats!  America  doesn't  want  Bolshevism,  and 
American  Bolsheviks  are  either  liars  or  lunatics!" 

"As  long  as  there  are  industrial  abuses  I  suppose 
there  will  be  radicals  to  fight  them,"  suggested  Em- 
ily, surprisingly  eager  to  combat  Walter's  ultra- 
conservative  point  of  view. 

"It's  a  tea-party  fight!"  growled  Walter.  "A  lot 
of  dazzled  idiots  looking  into  each  other's  faces  and 
debating,  debating,  debating — all  in  a  circle  like  the 
Mad  Hatter,  the  March  Hare  and  the  Dormouse. 
They  want  a  revolution,  they  want  the  earth,  they 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  253 

don't  know  what  they  want.  Look  at  the  Pilsen 
School,  the  saddest  joke  in  the  history  of  educa- 
tion. Old  maids  like  Elsa  holding  classes  in 
motherhood;  a  greasy  criminal  like  Alfonzo,  a 
pasty-faced  dilettante  like  Smole — the  whole  lazy 
pack  of  them  collecting  in  knots  and  telling  the 
world  what  the  working  people  want.  They  never 
did  a  day's  work  in  their  lives  and  they  don't  know 
a  labor  agitator  from  a  laborer." 

Strange  words  out  of  the  mouth  of  Professor 
Walter  Scott  Syle! 

"So  here  I  am  between  the  capitalistic  frying  pan 
and  the  Bolshevistic  fire.  For  twelve  years  I've  put 
my  time  and  my  brains  into  what  I  thought  was 
saving  the  world.  And  look  at  me  now.  Look  at 
me!  Thrown  out  of  every  respectable  college  in 
the  country  and  finally  ejected  from  the  Pilsen 
School  of  Radical  Culture.  I've  even  gone  in  for 
parlor  Bolshevism,  let  myself  be  dragged  from  pil- 
lar to  post  by  a  lot  of  silly  rich  women,  with  the 
hope  that  I  might  get  something  out  of  it  beside 
the  shirt  on  my  back " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Emily  Ray  quite  clearly. 

"You  see  what?"  He  looked  up  at  her  with  his 
bloodshot  eyes. 

"Nothing — and  everything.  Look  here,  Wal- 
ter," she  resumed,  taking  a  seat  beside  him  on  the 
divan,  "you  and  I  ha/e  been  barking  up  the  wrong 
tree,  that's  all." 

"Yes." 

"I've  just  seen  the  light  myself,  Walter.    We're 


254  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

in  the  same  boat,  only  we're  rowing  with  different 
oars.  I  also  had  an  idea  of  serving  rich  women 
with  my  honest  convictions;  but  this  morning  it 
occurred  to  me  that  I've  been  wrong  all  along  the 
line.  Rich  women — the  spoiled  set  in  those  big 
houses  Alfonzo  wants  to  burn  down — don't  pay 
much  for  being  served,  but  they  waste  like  wildfire 
to  be  amused.  They're  like  rubes  at  a  country  fair ; 
they  love  to  be  cheated  in  a  novel  way.  Why  did 
the  week-end  soviet  make  such  an  inglorious  fizzle? 
Because  the  Bolsheviks  acted  like  Bolsheviks  when 
Aunt  Carmen  had  brought  them  there  expecting  a 
pink  harmless  vaudeville  show.  Do  you  get  my 
point?" 

"I  don't  see  where  it  applies  to  my  case." 

"It  applies  closer  than  the  extra  shirt  you  want. 
Are  you  anxious  to  come  back,  Walter?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"To  be  vulgar,  do  you  want  to  get  rich?" 

"And  violate  my  convictions?" 

"Bunk!  You've  just  told  me  what  your  convic- 
tions are." 

"Hm.     You  seem  to  have  a  program." 

"The  only  sane  program  that  was  ever  hatched 
in  this  studio."  Emily  saw  her  patient  wavering, 
so  she  went  rapidly  to  her  project.  "What  the  so- 
ciety radicals  want  to  hear  is  a  lot  of  harmlessly 
dangerous  theories,  soothing  revolutionary  thoughts 
that  won't  make  them  nervous  about  losing  the  in- 
terest on  their  invested  capital.  You  have  a  splen- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 255 

did  platform  manner,  Walter,  and  a  way  with 
women — women  past  middle  age " 

"Thanks,"  he  moaned. 

"And  it  seems  to  me  that  all  you  need  is  a  busi- 
ness manager.  You  ought  to  put  yourself  in  the 
same  class  with  a  good  concert  singer  or  a  trav- 
elogue lecturer." 

"And  you  will  write  my  lectures,  I  suppose," 
Professor  Syle  sarcastically  intimated.  "And  pos- 
sibly you  might  provide  a  moving-picture  series 
showing  the  sorrows  of  the  poor " 

"Movies  would  be  too  expensive  at  first;  and 
they're  not  very  fashionable.  But  I  could  write  a 
few  of  your  first  lectures.  You'd  have  to  cut  out 
all  that  seditious  stuff  from  the  start  or  I'd  never 
touch  the  job.  But  I  have  ever  so  many  subjects 
you  could  use — Love  and  Municipal  Ownership, 
Perfection  in  Politics  and  The  Religion  of  Modern- 
ity." 

"And  I'd  give  up  every  idea  of  serving  my  peo- 
ple in  the  way  of  editorship." 

The  tone  in  which  he  said  it  was  far  less  gloomy 
than  the  sentiment  called  for. 

"You're  out  of  the  Raw  Deed  already,"  she  in- 
formed him  in  her  practical  way.  "It's  a  sort  of 
a  dynamiter's  trade  journal  anyhow.  How  would 
you  like  to  be  editor  of  the  New  Progressive?" 

"I've  always  wanted  it,"  he  confessed,  this  being 
his  candid  day.  "It's  the  only  thing  really  worth 
while  in  my  field." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "the  New  Progressive  is  the 


256  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

official  organ  of  the  parlor  Bolshevik.  It's  quite 
vogue  to  read  the  New  Progressive.  It  matches 
the  chintz  in  every  dainty  boudoir.  It's  run  by  the 
sweetest  board  of  highbrows,  it's  never  in  trouble 
because  it  never  says  anything  and  uses  the  loveliest 
language  saying  it." 

"I  couldn't  make  it,"  he  objected,  quite  ignoring 
her  satire.  "The  New  Progressive  is  like  an  ex- 
clusive club,  and  Justinian  Kroll  hates  the  ground 
I  walk  on." 

"You  can  get  anywhere  in  New  York  if  you 
have  all  the  ladies  working  for  you."  Emily  ut- 
tered a  great  truth. 

Walter  came  suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"I've  snubbed  Mrs.  Ballymoore,"  he  said,  "until 
she'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  me.  And  she's 
leader  of  all  the  society  radicals." 

"She  loves  to  be  snubbed,"  replied  Emily.  "I'll 
bet  she's  crazy  to  have  you  back." 

"I'm  going  to  get  a  shave,"  he  announced  in  a 
curiously  constrained  tone. 

"You  might.  And  don't  you  think  you  could 
find  a  nicer  suit  of  clothes  than  that?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  replied  abstractedly.  Then 
facing  round  he  fixed  his  red  eyes  on  his  business 
manager-elect. 

"Will  you  marry  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

Walter  Scott  Syle  took  a  step  toward  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  me  handle  your  career?" 
she  called  after  him. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  257 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  he  growled,  and  banged  the 
door  after  him. 

So  Emily  went  to  the  dreary  den  across  the  hall 
to  offer  peace  and  a  chance  to  live  to  miserable  Elsa. 


XIX 

EMILY  RAY  came  upon  Mrs.  Ballymoore  during 
the  week  when  she  was  somewhat  disgustedly  pack- 
ing for  Tawgamuk  Point,  her  country  home,  in 
order  to  organize  another  campaign  in  behalf  of  her 
beautiful  but  strikingly  unattractive  daughter  Vera. 
Vera's  hope,  member  of  a  recently  deposed  royal 
house,  had  found  an  heiress  just  as  rich  as  Vera 
and  infinitely  pleasanter  to  be  with.  There- 
fore Mrs.  Ballymoore's  Fifth  Avenue  house,  dec- 
orated to  the  nth  degree  of  taste  by  that  fashion- 
able swindler,  Carlo  Dulcimer,  was  in  a  confusion 
suitable  to  Mrs.  Ballymoore's  mind  on  the  after- 
noon of  Emily's  call. 

The  indefatigable  climber,  seeing  in  Emily  a  rel- 
ative of  the  detested  Mrs.  Shallope,  was  at  first 
fiercely  polite;  then  when  it  was  artfully  made 
known  that  Miss  Ray  held  in  her  reticule,  as  it 
were,  no  less  a  jewel  than  Professor  Walter  Scott 
Syle  and  a  series  of  drawing-room  lectures,  Mrs. 
Ballymoore's  manner  was  at  first  curious,  then  kind. 
She  asked  a  few  oblique  questions,  to  be  irritated 
by  equally  oblique  replies.  The  distinguished  rev- 
olutionist was  willing  to  auction  his  talents  to  the 
highest  bidder;  that  much  was  explained.  It  was 
not  said  outright,  but  it  was  implied  that  Mrs.  Shal- 

258 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  259 

lope  was  already  in  the  field  with  no  end  of  tempt- 
ing offers. 

The  game  was  easier  than  Emily  had  foreseen. 
Mrs.  Ballymoore  dismissed  her  from  the  presence 
with  the  understanding  that  Professor  Syle  should 
appear  at  Tawgamuk  Point  immediately  after 
horse-show  week  and  give  two  performances  for 
the  sum  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  and  his  expenses. 
Emily,  being  still  young  in  her  profession,  had  felt 
some  qualms  at  asking  the  price;  but  the  cheerful- 
ness with  which  her  terms  were  accepted  indicated 
that  the  fee  might  have  been  doubled  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  She  intimated  that  Mrs.  Ballymoore's 
word  was  as  good  as  her  check  and  took  her  de- 
parture with  an  empty  pocketbook  but  a  full  hope. 

Rosamonde,  who  was  resolved  to  turn  New  York 
into  a  summer  resort  and  had  already  taken  to  late 
hours  with  the  dancing  Army  set,  managed  to  wrest 
sufficient  nourishment  from  the  hungry  Eustace  to 
keep  her  cousin  fairly  comfortable  during  those 
weeks  of  waiting.  Then,  early  in  June,  with  one  of 
Merlin's  cast-off  and  made-over  warm-weather  cos- 
tumes on  his  back  and  another  in  his  hand-bag,  the 
Professor  took  his  fashionable  way  up  to  Tawga- 
muk Point.  He  had  been  quite  docile,  had  taken 
Emily's  advice  in  everything;  even  the  brisk  mili- 
tary manner  in  which  he  was  wearing  his  mustache 
had  been  one  of  Emily's  ideas.  She  thought  him 
rather  handsome  on  the  day  when,  with  the  whis- 
pered injunction,  "Keep  'em  guessing,  whatever  you 
do,"  she  saw  him  off  at  the  Grand  Central  Station. 


260  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

['^^^^•^••^^^^^^^^•^•'•^^^^•••••'•'•^••^^••''•••^•^••••••••'•^•••'•'•••^ 

Walter's  absence  was  protracted  from  one  week 
into  two.  He  telegraphed  triumphantly  twice,  and 
the  New  York  Trombone's  society  page  came  out 
with  a  snapshot  showing  Walter  Scott  Syle,  com- 
panioned by  great  folk  and  beautiful  in  Merlin's 
summer  suit,  witnessing  a  tennis  match.  A  para- 
graph from  Sissie  Spooner's  notes  included  the 
statement : 

"...  and  sweet  Tusia  Ballymoore  will  al- 
ways have  her  lion.  This  time  he  is  fresh  from  the 
jungle  of  social  discontent;  but  his  roarings  above 
the  summer  tide  of  Tawgamuk  Point  are  attuned  to 
the  best  traditions  of  modern  chamber  music.  Pro- 
fessor Walter  Scott  Syle's  lecture  on  Love  and 
Politics  packed  Mrs.  Ballymoore's  drawing-room, 
and  was  delivered  with  such  success  that  Sissie  pre- 
dicts any  number  of  dainty  converts  to  the  Cause 
ere  the  autumn  leaves  begin  to  fall." 

A  few  days  before  his  return  Syle  wrote  in  part: 

"It  seemed  at  first  like  a  silly  sacrilege,  but  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  that  my  message  is  here.  They 
receive  my  words  with  the  faith  of  little  children 
and  I  feel  that  I  may  yet  be  able  to  work  out  their 
redemption.  Mrs.  B.  has  given  her  check  which  I 
shall  bring  down  with  me.  By  the  way,  can't  you 
invent  something — something  Russian  but  not  too 
Russian — to  go  with  my  lectures?  Everything 
should  be  in  key.  Mrs.  B.  and  Vera  are  touring 
down  next  Wednesday  and  I  may  be  included  in 
the  party." 

So  far  so  good,  and  no  better.    Luck  turning  in 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  261 

her  favor  Emily  Ray,  being  human,  permitted  her 
mind  to  dwell  on  that  which  she  did  not  possess. 
Since  the  night  of  Aunt  Carmen's  crazy  house  party 
she  had  never  set  eyes  on  Oliver  Browning.  At 
first  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  melodramatic 
rescue  scene  in  which  they  were  so  intimately  con- 
cerned should  have  settled  all  their  differences.  In- 
stead it  seemed  to  have  drawn  them  farther  and 
farther  apart.  Oliver's  apartment  in  Pomander 
Place  was  locked  and  deserted.  The  Italian  wom- 
an who  had  made  his  bed  informed  Emily  one  hot 
morning  that  Mr.  Browning  had  gone  to  Texas  in 
a  matter  of  mules. 

"Mule  himself !"  sniffed  Emily,  and  again  turned 
her  thoughts  toward  the  man  whose  destiny  had 
become  so  inextricably  interwoven  with  hers.  She 
began  making  allowances  for  Walter.  Undoubted- 
ly he  had  come  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways;  if  he 
was  making  good  in  a  somewhat  dubious  profes- 
sion was  not  the  fault  entirely  Emily's?  Who  could 
blame  him  for  commercializing  the  only  art  he 
knew?  Under  Emily's  grooming  his  face  was  fill- 
ing out  and  he  was  becoming  positively  handsome 
— much  better  looking  than  Oliver  to  the  unpreju- 
diced eye.  And  yet 

"How  old  are  you?"  asked  the  spectral  Elsa  one 
morning;  she  had  become  Emily's  housekeeper  and 
confidential  agent. 

"I  was  twenty-four  on  the  second/'  admitted 
Emily. 

"You'll  be  an  old  maid  the  next  thing  you  know," 


262  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

warned  the  prophetess  of  evil.  "I  had  my  chance 
when  I  was  nineteen.  It  was  up  in  Salem,  Mass. 
I  thought  I  had  a  great  career  ahead  of  me — writ- 
ing poetry.  And  I  had  a  silly  notion  that  I  couldn't 
marry  a  man  who  came  home  at  night  and  talked 
business." 

"What  was  his  business?'1  asked  Emily  sym- 
pathetically. 

"He  was  an  undertaker,"  said  Comrade  Elsa. 

It  was  a  sultry  afternoon  in  mid-June  when  the 
Pomander  Place  studio  staged  a  truly  musical  com- 
edy. Electric  fans  were  going  full  blast,  ruffling 
crisp  muslin  curtains  against  fly-screened  windows, 
while  the  neat  smart  interior  with  its  pretty  chintz 
and  black- framed  drawings  was  a-quiver  with  the 
notes  of  male  voices,  accorded  but  violent : 

"Struma,  bodkin,  inchvall,  struma!" 

This  they  seemed  to  be  chanting  with  infinite 
repetitions  and  variations  in  sweet  fierce  voices.  A 
quartette  of  Russian  muzhiks,  arrayed  quaintly  in 
Slavic  costumes,  were  making  the  noise  for  the 
benefit  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore  and  her  disagreeably 
beautiful  Vera,  the  twain  having  motored  Profes- 
sor Walter  Scott  Syle  down  from  Tawgamuk 
Point  in  order  to  hear  these  rare  song  birds  which 
Emily  had  assembled  out  of  the  flotsam  of  the 
Pilsen  School. 

The  studio  was  somewhat  less  futuristic  in  ap- 
pearance than  it  had  been  under  Rosamonde's  man- 
agement. The  pink  curtains  had  come  down;  so 
had  a  menagerie  of  wild  paintings.  Emily  had 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  263 

r^^^^™***'^**^^^^^^^^^™^^^^^^™'^"^^^^^^^^^*"^*™**^'^'™'™^™^"^**'^^^^"^ 

gone  in  for  repression,  accentuated  by  a  note  of 
horror  here  and  there;  she  had  worked  under  the 
sane  philosophy  that  a  single  murder  is  often  more 
dramatic  than  a  massacre. 

In  a  far  corner,  whither  the  impressionistic  por- 
trait of  Lenine  had  been  sequestered,  Vera  Bally- 
moore — Emily  was  not  overlooking  this  encounter 
— was  making  violent  love  to  Professor  Syle.  And 
a  wonderfully  remodeled  Syle  he  was,  with  a  gar- 
denia in  the  buttonhole  of  a  new  pongee  suit. 

"What  are  they  singing  about?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ballymoore. 

Emily,  who  had  been  indulging  the  feminine 
thought  that  Vera's  thousand-dollar  costume  had 
managed  to  exaggerate  repellent  loveliness,  started 
at  the  question  and  extemporized  rapidly. 

"It's  a  folk  song  about — about  horses.  'The 
horses  gallop  up  the  hill.' ' 

"The  songs  of  the  people  are  so  full  of  pathos," 
suggested  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  who  was  also  watch- 
ing Vera  out  of  a  corner  of  her  hard  eye.  "  'Prog- 
ress marches  to  music/  That  is  a  quotation  from 
Professor  Syle.  Could  I  have  them  at  my  house 
next  winter,  do  you  think?"  Referring  of  course 
to  the  musical  muzhiks. 

"They  are  very  much  attached  to  Comrade  Wal- 
ter," objected  Emily,  "They  seldom  sing  except 
on  the  same  program  with  him.  In  fact,  as  I  under- 
stand it,  he  has  arranged  to  take  them  on  his  lec- 
ture tour." 

Mrs.  Ballymoore  paused.    Under  the  portrait  of 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


Lenine  her  daughter  Vera's  classic  head  was  slant- 
ing coquettishly  toward  that  of  Professor  Syle. 

"I  was  hoping  to  have  him  next  winter,"  con- 
fided Mrs.  Ballymoore  at  last  above  the  droning 
of  the  Russian  music. 

"I  am  now  making  out  his  schedule/*  said  Em- 
ily, which  was  literally  true. 

"My  ballroom  is  being  remodeled  this  summer," 
observed  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  "It  will  have  a  seating 
capacity  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  and  makes  an 
excellent  auditorium.  Last  winter  we  had  Sir  Taj 
Ravore's  series  on  'Etherialism'  -  " 

Emily,  sensing  the  time  to  strike,  broke  in  : 

"Professor  Syle's  New  York  course  will  include 
twelve  lectures.  Our  books  are  now  open.  Of 
course  we  must  have  a  guaranty  that  the  capacity 
of  the  auditorium  will  be  sold  out.  My  aunt's  ball- 
room, I  believe,  will  seat  over  three  hundred  -  " 

"He  will  be  wasted  on  Long  Island!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ballymoore  feverishly.  "The  Taj  Ravore  lec- 
tures sold  out  at  twenty-five  dollars  for  a  season 
ticket." 

"We  are  asking  thirty,"  explained  Emily. 

"The  extra  five  oughtn't  to  make  any  difference." 

"That  is  necessary  on  account  of  the  Russian 
music." 

Emily  was  now  sorry  she  hadn't  asked  fifty. 
True,  Comrade  Horrovitch,  the  Ukrainian  leader 
of  the  harmonious  four,  had  settled  on  a  lump  sum 
of  ten  dollars  a  night,  which  was  seven  more  than 
the  Ukrainians  had  ever  seen  assembled  in  one 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  265 

transaction.  But  Emily  was  yet  to  perfect  herself 
in  the  Fifth  Avenue  business  philosophy:  The 
Higher  the  Price  the  Finer  the  Goods. 

The  Russian  quartet  had  ceased  to  boom.  In 
the  sudden  hush  Emily  could  hear  Vera  Bally- 
moore  asking  in  a  note  as  melodious  as  a  song : 

"But  do  you  think  society  should  deny  a  woman's 
right  to  her  choice?" 

"By — by  no  means."  Walter  seemed  unusually 
hesitant.  "No  doubt  the  relative  values  will  be  de- 
termined as  the  race  becomes  more  enlightened." 

Comrade  Horrovitch  was  advancing  upon  Emily, 
smiling  the  smile  of  the  conscious  artist. 

"You  are  heavenly!"  cooed  Mrs.  Ballymoore. 

"What  she  said?"  asked  Comrade  Horrovitch, 
turning  to  Emily. 

"Nice — good — fine!"  interpreted  Emily,  raising 
her  voice  as  we  do  when  addressing  aliens. 

"We  sing  more,"  boomed  Horrovitch's  deep 
basso. 

"Splendid!"  cried  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  "Do  sing 
something  warlike  and  stirring." 

"We  sing  Tincannus,"  he  volunteered. 

Tincannus  was  what  it  sounded  like,  but  Russian 
scholars  will  doubtless  disagree  with  me.  At  any 
rate  the  merry  muzhiks  got  themselves  in  a  row. 
One  of  them  whanged  passionately  upon  a  harpish 
sort  of  instrument.  Then  four  right  hands  went 
upward  and  there  belched  forth  a  sudden  roar 
which  shook  the  bric-a-brac  of  number  eighteen 
and  caused  poor  old  Elsa  to  jump  as  though  she 


266  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

had  beheld  the  ghost  of  her  discarded  undertaker. 

The  noise  subsided  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun, 
and  in  the  nervous  silence  Emily  was  aware  that 
somebody  had  been  alternately  ringing  and  knock- 
ing at  her  front  door.  It  was  Elsa  who  went  to 
the  door.  There  was  a  brief  parley  and  in  walked 
Oliver  Browning,  perspiring  generously  in  spite  of 
his  paper-thin  blue  suit  and  waving  panama. 

"Oliver!"  cried  Emily,  rushing  to  greet  him. 

But  the  moment  was  unpropitious,  for  she  had 
no  sooner  taken  his  hand  than  the  Russian  quar- 
tet, who  had  been  waiting  moodily  upon  the  tink- 
tinkling  of  the  harpish  instrument,  attacked  again 
with  appalling  vigor.  It  was  nothing  less  than  a 
musical  explosion,  and  at  its  compact  Oliver  Brown- 
ing started  back,  his  cherubic  young  countenance 
blanking  with  a  sort  of  comic  fear. 

"I — I  guess  I  got  in  at  the  wrong  party,"  he 
shouted  in  the  ear  of  the  girl,  who  strove  so  bravely 
to  detain  him.  He  was  backing  toward  the  door. 

"No,  no!"  she  pleaded  confusedly.  "We're  only 
practicing.  We " 

"I  know.  But  practice  makes  perfect."  He  had 
now  backed  out  into  the  hall  and  was  standing  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  How  could  she  explain  that 
this  was  merely  playing  Bolshevism  to  suit  the 
whim  of  a  silly  woman  ? 

"We'll  be  through  in  a  minute,"  she  assured  him, 
seeing  that  he  would  escape. 

"Through  with  that?"  he  chuckled.  "Say, 
Emmy,  I  thought  you  were  through  with  that  the 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  267 

night  they  tried  to  dynamite  Aunt  Carmen's  place 
and -" 

"S-s-sh!"  warned  Emily,  alarmed  lest  Mrs. 
Ballymoore  should  scent  a  scandal. 

"All  right,"  said  Oliver,  "but  I'm  on  my  way. 
This  Russian  jazz  gets  mine." 

"Oliver,  you're  a  mule!"  she  cried,  losing  her 
temper. 

"I  admit  it — association  with  mules,  you  know. 
But  a  mule  isn't  the  worst  animal  there  is.  There's 
his  daddy " 

"If  you're  going  to  stand  there  and  call  my 
friends  jackasses,  you  can  go !" 

"I'm  sorry,  Emmy.    Honest  I  am." 

"I  hope  you  stay  sorry,"  she  blessed  him,  as  she 
closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  the  Russians  and 
their  shocking  noise. 


XX 


IT  was  in  that  season  of  piping  cold  when  Rus- 
sian symphony  orchestras  are  tuned  up  at  concert 
pitch,  dray  horses  are  falling  down  on  the  slippery 
asphalt,  coal  deliveries  are  late,  musical  critics  are 
complaining  that  Caruso  is  not  what  he  used  to  be, 
and  the  mayor  of  New  York  is  buying  a  tropical 
trousseau,  preparatory  to  a  much-needed  rest  at 
Palm  Beach.  It  was,  in  short,  the  week  before 
Lent,  a  period  of  pause,  when  the  industrious  har- 
vester of  the  city's  crop  may  take  stock  of  his  bless- 
ings, considering  whether  he  has  done  well  or  ill  by 
himself. 

I  am  aware  of  two  stock  takers  on  a  blustering 
March  afternoon,  who,  superficially  viewed,  would 
have  been  at  once  classed  among  the  thrice  blessed. 
Professor  Walter  Scott  Syle,  a  worldly  figure  and 
prosperous,  was  just  stepping  out  of  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore's  pot-bellied  marble  fagade  and  into  a  pea- 
green  town  car.  The  initials  "W.  S.  S."  plainly 
lettered  on  the  door  might,  unconsciously,  have  ad- 
vertised War  Savings  Stamps,  although  they  had 
been  put  there  to  announce  that  Walter  Scott  Syle 
was  owner  of  the  car;  and  the  professor's  manner 
said  as  much  as  he  permitted  his  chauffeur  to  slam 
the  initialed  door  and  to  whirl  him  noiselessly  down 
the  Avenue.  His  face  had  plumped  visibly  in  these 

268 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  269 

months  of  good  living.  He  wore  a  shaggy  gray 
overcoat  and  loose-fitting  gloves,  suggestive  of  a 
country  gentleman  in  town  for  the  day. 

Unsympathetic  observers,  such  as  you  or  I,  would 
not  at  that  moment  have  placed  him  on  the  extreme 
left  wing  of  the  radical  movement ;  yet  he  displayed 
two  evidences  of  his  lifelong  conviction.  First, 
there  was  his  scarfpin,  a  large  ruby  of  that 
cranberry  cut  known  to  the  trade  as  "cabuchon." 
Miss  Vera  Ballymoore  had  given  him  that  as  a 
symbol  of  his  faith — and  hers.  Secondly,  there  was 
the  book  which  he  held  lightly  in  his  loose-gloved 
hand.  Without  going  into  the  extravagances  of 
the  bookbinder's  prattle  it  might  be  described  as  a 
handsome  volume,  bound  in  red  Morocco,  hand- 
tooled  in  gold  with  the  title  "The  Heart  of  a  Radi- 
cal" and  the  authorship,  Walter  Scott  Syle. 

He  who  was  thus  goldenly  proclaimed  sat 
thoughtfully  ruffing  the  chaste  pages  and  paused  at 
an  inside  leaf,  beautiful  with  the  red-lettered  an- 
nouncement : 

Emancipation  Edition 

Limited  to  Four  Hundred  and 

Fifty  Numbered  Copies 

of  Which  This  Is 

No  ...  2. 

The  numeral  had  been  put  in  with  a  rubber  stamp, 
and  that  Walter  Scott  Syle  was  able  to  uncap  his 


270 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

fountain  pen  and  scribble  a  line  below  was  a  tribute 
to  the  smooth  action  of  his  excellent  town  car. 

This  voyage  de  luxe  marked  for  him  the  closing 
of  one  triumph  and  the  imminence  of  another.  In 
the  language  of  the  Rialto  he  had  just  completed 
an  engagement,  playing  New  York  two  nights  a 
week  and  alternating  with  Boston.  With  the 
blooming  of  Easter  lilies  he  was  booked  for  a  Mid- 
dle Western  circuit — Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Minne- 
apolis, Milwaukee.  It  was  all  on  the  principle  of 
advertising  your  show  in  the  big  town,  as  Emily 
had  so  crassly  put  it,  and  then  you  could  take  it  on 
the  road. 

At  the  moment  of  Professor  Syle's  triumphal 
progress  down  Fifth  Avenue  she  who  had  talked 
him  into  his  talks,  the  authoress  of  his  authorship, 
was  just  closing  the  affairs  of  the  day  in  the  Red 
Revolution  Tea  Room,  a  flourishing  second-story 
enterprise  in  the  business  heart  of  New  York's 
fashionable  thoroughfare.  Emily  Ray,  as  she 
busied  herself  looking  over  the  day's  accounts  and 
giving  orders  for  to-morrow's  rush  of  business, 
was  a  truly  lovely  sight  to  see.  Prosperity  always 
became  her;  and  she  had  not  made  the  mistake  of 
attiring  herself  like  a  harlequin  in  the  Bolshevist 
mode.  In  a  close-fitting  subtly-blue  costume  from 
Miss  Virgie's  fashionable  atelier,  with  a  touch  of 
coral-red  at  her  throat — a  concession  to  the  cause — 
she  looked  exactly  what  she  was,  a  young  lady  of 
quality  who  wore  good  clothes  by  her  own  divine 
right. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


The  broad  space  in  which  she  stood  was  an  exotic 
bower  of  her  own  creation.  The  center  of  the  main 
floor  had  been  cleared  for  dancing  —  dancing  was 
chronic  in  the  Red  Tea  Room.  Balconies,  balconies, 
everywhere,  short  balconies  for  two,  long  balconies 
for  twenty;  an  infinity  of  spindled  rails,  trimmed 
artistically  in  Chinese  red.  Emily  had  chosen  this 
shade  as  an  aesthetic  compromise;  the  vulgar  ox- 
blood  red  of  liberalism  jarred  horribly  with  every 
decorative  scheme  she  attempted.  A  number  of 
redbirds,  in  the  expensive  Chinese  cages  which  hung 
from  the  balconies,  twitted  peevishly  for  their  sup- 
per. Comrade  Elsa,  attired  as  an  Ukrainian  peas- 
ant girl,  was  hopping  stiffly  up  and  down  a  ladder, 
distributing  birdseed. 

Comrade  Horrovitch,  in  native  costume,  came 
down  a  narrow  staircase  from  the  balcony  where 
his  quartet  had  been  performing. 

"I  see  you?"  he  asked,  trouble  distorting  his 
greasy  fat  face  as  he  faced  the  manageress  of  the 
Red  Tea  Room. 

"You  see  me,"  she  agreed.  She  was  just  closing 
the  daybook  and  her  smile  still  lingered. 

"Fifteen  dollar  a  day  for  four  singing  people  too 
much  little,"  he  growled. 

"Make  it  sixteen,"  she  suggested  shortly,  and 
went  back  to  the  pleasurable  account  book. 

"Too  less  still,"  he  persisted.  "From  here  on 
we  ask  twenty." 

"You  are  a  gouge,"  she  suggested. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"I  am  a  leeberal,"  he  argued.  "Hard  times  are 
going  up  in  this  so-called  free  countree." 

"If  you'd  ask  reasonable  wages  they  wouldn't  go 
up." 

"We  strike,"  decreed  Comrade  Horrovitch. 

"Go  ahead,  but  please  don't  bother  me/' 

"Strike  no  bother  you?"  Comrade  Horrovitch 
looked  truly  worried. 

"Why  should  it?"  she  inquired.  "If  you  go  we 
can  get  a  troupe  of  Neapolitan  serenaders.  There 
are  plenty  of  Reds  in  Naples." 

"Ha!  If  you  do  we  make  walk-off  of  all  your 
union  employment." 

"Do  you  belong  to  a  union?"  she  asked  inno- 
cently. 

"No;  but  we  can." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Horrovitch.  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  Brotherhood  of  Ukrainian  Folk  Song 
Society  Tea  Room  Artists?  The  Federation 
wouldn't  take  you  in  unless  you  were  fumigated." 

"We  do  so."  It  was  apparent  that  Horrovitch 
didn't  know  what  he  was  in  for.  "After  that  we 
strike  some  more  and  all  your  employment  walk 
off/' 

"What  if  they  do?"  asked  Emily.  "There's  no 
reason  why  we  shouldn't  employ  scab  labor." 

"Scab  labor  in  Red  Socialist  Headquarters?"  he 
fairly  gasped. 

"Nobody  who  comes  here  ever  worries  about 
labor  problems,"  she  told  him  severely.  "Do  you 
think  they'd  be  annoyed  by  strikes  and  lockouts 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  273 

and  all  those  vulgar  questions?  What  our  clients 
here  want  is  liberation,  and  they  want  it  served 
with  as  little  friction  as  possible.  However,  if  you 
feel  that  you  must  have  twenty  dollars  a  perform- 
ance"— again  Emily  looked  over  her  daybook  and 
smiled  a  satisfied  smile — "why,  I  suppose  we've  got 
to  pay  it.  Now  please  go  home,  Horrovitch,  and 
next  time  you  put  on  your  costume  don't  wear  those 
awful  tan  shoes.  We've  bought  you  boots  at  thirty- 
eight  dollars  a  pair  and " 

Her  lecture  was  interrupted  by  Comrade  Hor- 
rovitch who  had  fallen  on  his  knees  and  was  rap- 
turously kissing  her  hand. 

When  Professor  Syle  arrived  he  was  greeted 
by  Comrade  Elsa,  who  was  badgering  a  redbird 
from  the  top  of  her  ladder. 

"Say!"  she  screamed  down  at  him,  whereupon 
he  jumped  and  somewhat  guiltily  smuggled  'The 
Heart  of  a  Radical"  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 

"How  do  you  do,  Elsa!    How  do  you  do!" 

"The  Grand  Duke  of  New  Rochelle!"  she  sa- 
luted him  sourly.  "Living  uptown  now,  eh,  what? 
Apartments  in  the  Fitz-Hebron  like  the  regular 
actor  that  you  are." 

"Since  when  have  you  objected  to  personal  free- 
dom?" asked  Syle,  not  without  temper. 

"Since  I  got  loose,"  announced  Elsa,  "and  found 
what  freedom  really  was." 

"Where's  Comrade— Miss  Ray?"  he  asked  sulk- 
ily. 

"Back  in  the  pantry  roasting  the  chef."     Elsa 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


had  now  got  down  and  taken  a  seat  beside  him  in 
one  of  the  tea  room's  modish  chairs. 

"Do  you  know  'what  the  comrades  down  at  the 
school  are  saying  about  you?"  she  inquired,  eying 
him  wickedly  as  she  rested  a  sharp  chin  on  a 
sharper  elbow. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  care."  Syle's  attention  was 
now  riveted  on  the  pantry. 

"They  say  you're  cutting  'em  on  the  street  and 
that  you  won't  notice  a  Bolshevik  worth  less  than 
fifty  thousand  a  year." 

"I  didn't  begin  the  cutting,  if  you'll  remember/* 
he  deigned  to  reply. 

"Oh,  I  don't  blame  you,  'Walter/'  she  persisted. 
"That  village  stuff  is  all  bunk.  I  didn't  know  what 
life  really  was  until  I  began  living  with  Emily  up 
at  the  Hotel  Joan  of  Arc.  It's  wonderful  what  a 
difference  a  hot  android  shower  makes,  and  a  wop 
in  the  morning  to  bring  up  your  coffee.  Bolshev- 
ism de  luxe  —  that's  the  life!  I  understand  that 
pretty  book  of  yours  was  all  subcribed  at  twelve 
dollars  a  'volume  before  the  date  of  pub  -  " 

Emily  appeared  on  the  high  landing  leading  to 
the  kitchen,  whereupon  Elsa  scuttled  back  to  her 
loveless  task  of  feeding  the  redbirds. 

"Why,  Walter!"  cried  Emily  rapturously,  as 
though  separation  had  been  long  and  he  was  every- 
thing he  might  be  to  her. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  asked  moodily,  as  soon 
as  he  had  sufficiently  removed  her  from  Elsa's  mor- 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  275 

bid  ears,  "if  you'd  like  a  little  run  round  the  park 
before  dinner." 

"I  am  dining  early  with  the  van  Laerens,"  she 
explained ;  then  seeing  his  troubled  brow :  "What's 
happened,  Walter?" 

"Nothing,"  he  replied,  which  is  the  Chinese 
method  of  saying  "Everything." 

"I'll  put  my  hat  on,"  she  said.  And  five  minutes 
later  Syle's  smart  town  car  was  rounding  the  Sher- 
man statue  and  pointing  its  aristocratic  nose  into 
Central  Park. 

"I — I've  brought  you  my  book,"  was  his  way  of 
opening  the  campaign. 

He  pulled  the  red  volume  from  his  pocket  and 
rather  clumsily  laid  it  in  her  lap. 

"Oh,  Walter!"  She  was  rhapsodical.  ''How 
lovely  it  looks  now  that  it's  all  dressed  up  for  the 
evening!  Have  the  publishers  paid  you  yet?" 

"They'll  settle  for  the  whole  edition  next  week. 
And  they're  putting  on  one  of  those  rotten  popular 
editions — vulgar  cheap-Jack  stuff — at  a  dollar- 
ninety.  It  seems  that  the  Trombone  has  been 
writing  scarehead  editorials  about  it  and  giving  it 
a  certain  vogue  among  the  riffraff." 

"I  know,"  sympathized  Emily.  "I  wrote  the 
editorials." 

"This  is  for  you,"  volunteered  Syle  rather 
wearily,  rejecting  the  book  which  she  was  trying  to 
give  back  to  him. 

"You  sweet  thing!" 

She  opened  it  at  the  flyleaf,  and  with  every  ap- 


276  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

pearance  of  upliftment  read  aloud  the  scribbled 
sentiment : 

"For  Emily  Ray  whose  editorial  skill  has  made 
my  thoughts  intelligible  to  the  world." 

"You  did  write  about  half  of  it,"  he  added  gen- 
erously. "You  turned  the  title  from  The  Hate  of 
a  Radical'  to  'Heart  of  a  Radical/  and  blue-penciled 
that  dangerous  old  manuscript  till  it  wouldn't  of- 
fend a  rabbit." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  agreed  abstractedly,  but  her 
eyes  were  still  studying  the  flyleaf. 

"Walter,"  she  asked  quietly  at  last,  "this  is 
Number  Two.  Why  didn't  you  give  me  Number 
One?" 

"Hm !"  He  cleared  his  throat  twice  before  reply- 
ing. "You  see  there  were  circumstances." 

"Was  the  circumstance  Vera  Ballymoore?" 

"What  made  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course  it  would  be." 

"Mrs.  Ballymoore,"  he  came  out  roughly,  "has 
financed  the  book.  She's  fixed  it  so  that  I'm  get- 
ting a  double  royalty.  She's  financed  the  adver- 
tising. Without  her  backing  it  never  could  have 
been  possible." 

"Why  didn't  Number  One  go  to  her?"  continued 
Emily's  inexorable  cross-examination. 

"It  did.  That  is  to  say,  by  giving  it  to  Vera  I 
gave  it  to  her  mother  in  the  most  flattering  possible 
way." 

"So." 

Our  leading  sages,  poets,   prophets,   and   other 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  277 

bromides  have  been  pleased  to  liken  woman  to  a 
cat.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  cat  that,  should  she 
be  indifferent  to  a  morsel  of  food,  one  can  sharpen 
her  appetite  by  throwing  the  morsel  to  a  rival  of 
the  same  species.  This  is  true.  It  is  also  true  of 
dogs,  chickens,  turtles,  anacondas  and  that  quaint 
little  African  anachronism,  the  dik-dik.  However, 
women  have  a  way  of  clawing  out  for  the  immi- 
nently escapable;  that  we  have  seen  with  our  own 
eyes.  And  Emily  Ray  experienced  something  akin 
to  desire  at  the  realization  that  she  had  been  favored 
with  Number  Two  when  Number  One  had  been 
placed  elsewhere. 

"It's  a  rotten  tangle,"  said  Syle  bitterly,  his  au- 
burn eyes  burning  amber  fire.  "The  Ballymoores 
can  do  anything  for  me  if  they're  given  a  chance. 
Vera  is  an  unobstructed  heiress  to  thirty-six  mil- 
lions." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  her?"  asked  Emily,  try- 
ing to  keep  the  hardness  out  of  her  voice. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  better?"  he  asked,  in  the  tone 
of  one  consulting  his  business  manager. 

"Why  not  ?  Several  royal  dukes  have  considered 
her  and  only  backed  out  because  of — well — her  dis- 
position." 

"She's  crazy  about  me,"  he  admitted  modestly. 
"I  seem  to  have  a  peculiar  influence  over  women — 
most  of  them.  She  scarcely  ever  lets  me  alone.  I 
have  to  keep  my  telephone  unhooked  for  hours  at 
a  time  or  she  wouldn't  give  me  time  to  work.  But 
now  the  time  has  come" — he  broke  off  suddenly 


278  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

and  seemed  interested  in  the  wintry  trees  spinning 
past — "the  time  has  come  when  something  definite 
has  to  be  done.  I've  got  to  choose  one  way  or 
another." 

"That  ought  to  be  simple  enough,"  she  thought 
she  said,  but  was  not  sure. 

"She'll  take  me  in  a  minute  if  I  ask  her.  I'll  be 
definitely  fixed  for  life.  With  unlimited  money  I 
can  carry  on  my  work  far  beyond  what  I  have 
dreamed  of.  Other  men  have  married  unpleasant 
women  for  a  lot  less  than  I'm  getting." 

"You  could  be  quite  happy,  I  think,"  said  Emily 
distinctly,  looking  straight  at  him. 

"That's  a  lie.  I  should  be  miserable,  Emily." 
With  an  agony  that  made  him  all  human  at  the 
moment  he  reached  over  and  clutched  her  hand. 

Of  course  she  knew  what  was  coming.  Why 
shouldn't  he — shouldn't  they?  Their  financial  af- 
fairs were  as  completely  amalgamated  as  if  they 
were  married  already.  A  charlatan  he  might  be — 
yes.  But  it  was  in  the  pursuit  of  a  heady  romance, 
a  romance  of  trade  and  bright  baubles  and  drama 
and  audacity,  that  she  had  led  him  to  this  pass. 
Yes,  their  lives  were  interwoven,  even  as  their  fin- 
gers were  at  this  moment.  Together  they  could 
dare  everything.  Apart  they  would  be  nothing. 

"Emily,"  he  was  racing  madly  on.  "I  can't  do 
it!  I  can't.  You  know  why.  I  love  you.  But 
I've  got  to  decide.  If  you  make  me  I'll  go  to  her 
and  ask  her  to  finish  up  the  mess.  But  it's  got  to 
be  now  or  never.  Will  you  marry  me?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  279 

>         i  i  . .    i  ,  .. 

"Yes." 

Somebody  seemed  to  be  saying  it  for  her.  But 
even  as  he  was  gathering  her  in  his  arms  she  heard 
herself  saying  "Mule!"  It  was  as  though  she  were 
addressing  the  ghost-picture  which  floated  toward 
her  somewhere  out  of  Texas — a  plump,  boyish 
young  'man  smoking  cigarettes  as  he  strolled  amia- 
bly through  a  herd  of  his  long-eared  pets.  There 
was  no  reproach  in  his  look;  only  a  good-natured, 
tolerant  philosophy.  And  "Mule!"  her  soul  cried 
out  as  she  surrendered  to  the  inevitable. 

Walter  Scott  Syle  leaned  over  and  kissed  her. 
After  all  it  was  not  so  unpleasant. 


XXI 

How  Professor  Syle  just  missed  becoming  editor 
of  the  New  Progressive — an  office  which  carried 
with  it  the  crown  of  parlor  Bolshevism  in  America 
— is  an  incident  worthy  of  a  chapter. 

Walter  had  interrupted  his  Western  tour  in  mid- 
flight  and  come  back  to  New  York,  object  matri- 
mony; for  time  had  worn  into  the  middle  of  May 
and  the  date  they  had  set  for  an  inconspicuous  wed- 
ding was  but  a  week  off.  It  was  to  be  a  business 
honeymoon  wherein  the  bride  was  to  follow  her 
groom  round  the  circuit;  then  there  would  be  a 
cottage  in  Maine,  convenient  to  some  fashionable 
resort,  and  they  could  set  themselves  at  leisure  to 
the  task  of  living  happy  ever  afterward. 

One  morning  in  May  the  bridegroom  expectant 
awaited  his  bride-elect  in  the  reception  room  of  her 
hotel.  For  one  who  bore  funeral  tidings  he  was  in 
a  curiously  elated  mood,  pacing  energetically  up 
and  down  the  imitation  Chinese  rug,  brandishing  a 
copy  of  the  Evening  Excelsior,  his  face  aflame,  his 
eyes  dancing. 

"He's  dead!"  he  cried  triumphantly,  quite  neg- 
lecting to  kiss  the  lady  of  his  choice. 

"Who's  dead?"  she  asked,  wondering  if  Walter 
would  turn  out  to  be  the  heir  to  an  earldom. 

280 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 281 

For  a  reply  Walter  thrust  into  her  hands  his  copy 
of  the  Excelsior,  folded  at  the  mortuary  column. 

JUSTINIAN  KROLL  DEAD 

Editor  of  New  Progressive 

Succumbs  to  Pneumonia 

at  Greenwich  Home 

"Dead!"  chanted  Walter,  beating  his  breast,  but 
with  an  emotion  far  from  grief.  "Emily,  you've 
brought  me  luck  again!  You1  seem  to  bring  me 
luck  every  way  I  turn/' 

"I  didn't  kill  him,"  explained  Emily,  "but  I'm 
glad  it  tickles  you  so." 

"My  dear,  can't  you  see?"  Her  pet  intellectual 
paused  in  his  rejoicing  to  explain.  "There's  a  va- 
cant chair  in  Olympus." 

"And  you  want  me  to  get  it  for  you  ?" 

"Well,  can't  you?"  he  asked.  He  was  getting 
into  the  habit  of  saying  "Can't  you?" 

"He's  got  a  trained  staff,"  was  her  practical  ob- 
jection. "You've  never  been  on  the  New  Progres- 
sive. It  would  be  like  an  outsider " 

"It  wasn't  my  fault  I  never  got  on  their  staff. 
The  snobs  always  shoved  me  aside;  they  knew  I'd 
get  control  of  the  publication  once  I  put  my  foot 
inside  the  door.  I  should  never  have  identified 
myself  with  a  sheet  like  the  Raw  Deal  if  there  had 
been  a  chance  for  me." 

"You've  always  wanted  it?"  she  asked,  curiously 


S8«  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

eyeing  him  and  wondering  how  long  he  had  been 
a  slave  to  worldly  ambition. 

"I've  never  wanted  anything  so  in  all  my  life." 
He  looked  away  as  he  said  it. 

"Oh." 

"There's  a  distinction  to  the  New  Progressive. 
It  doesn't  get  down  in  the  gutter  and  fight  with 
mud." 

"No,  in  the  clouds  with  atomizers."  She  was 
smiling. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  taxed  her 
gruffly. 

"Nothing,  but  I  was  thinking.  The  New  Pro- 
gressive would  go  beautifully  with  what  we  are 
doing.  It  gives  the  effect  of  splendid  independence 
without  making  any  enemies — goes  to  war  in  a 
dress  suit.  That's  the  secret  of  our  success,  Walter 
— to  carry  on  a  revolution  and  keep  all  our  friends, 
the  influential  ones." 

"I  hate  to  listen  to  you  when  you're  cheaply 
cynical." 

"You  needn't,"  she  told  him,  backing  away. 

"Emily,  don't  let's  quarrel.  It  wastes  time. 
Here's  the  great  chance  of  our  life,  and  I  want  you 
to  help  me."  He  got  her  two  unresisting  hands 
and  his  eyes  spoke  volumes.  "We'll  have  a  dig- 
nified position  in  the  world,  my  lectures  will  carry 
more  and  more  weight.  Don't  you  see  how  it  will 
be  the  making  of  us  at  a  stroke?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do — buy  the  publica- 
tion for  you?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  283 

She  said  this  without  sarcasm.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  considering  the  New  Progressive  as  a 
purchasable  enterprise. 

"It  can't  be  bought,"  he  mused.  "It's  owned  by 
the  Brontzburgers,  and  they  want  to  keep  it  the 
way  it  is,  keep  it  radical  and  independent  but  never 
let  it  get  out  of " 

"Out  of  the  drawing-room,"  suggested  Emily. 

"You  might  put  it  that  coarse  way,"  he  conceded. 
"At  any  rate  the  New  Progressive  is  the  only  radi- 
cal publication  that  has  vogue  among  the  sort  of 
people  I  want  to  reach." 

"Our  sort  of  people,"  said  Emily  with  a  straight 
face.  It  sounded  like  a  quotation  from  her  Aunt 
Carmen. 

"That's  it  exactly.    Now  what  can  you  do?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Ballymoore."  He 
said  it  in  the  hushed  voice  of  intrigue. 

"Since  when  have  I  influence  with  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore?" 

"She  has  explicit  faith  in  you — as  a  manager." 
Then  as  though  this  point  were  settled  he  went  on : 
"It  was  Mrs.  Ballymoore  who  first  got  Brontzbur- 
ger  interested  in  the  New  Progressive.  A  word 
from  you  would  make  all  the  difference." 

Emily  sat  down  and  considered  him  seriously. 
A  word  from  her  would  make  all  the  difference;  in 
this  estimate  he  was  no  more  than  just.  For  a  year 
now  she  had  been  putting  in  the  right  word  at  the 
right  moment  and  his  rise  from  poverty  to  power 


284  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

had  been  picturesque.  The  editorship  of  that  aris- 
tocratic voice  of  the  masses,  the  New  Progressive, 
would  give  them  a  place  in  the  world.  A  place 
de  luxe,  like  the  limited  edition  of  Walter's  "Heart 
of  a  Radical/'  A  fixed  salary,  plenty  of  time  for 
subscription  lectures  and  subsidized  Red  Tea 
Rooms,  a  brisk  sale  for  more  morocco-bound  vol- 
umes, entree  into  some  of  the  greatest  houses  in 
New  York 

"Walter,  I  think  I  can  fix  it  for  you." 

"Emily,  you're  always  resourceful!" 

She  offered  him  her  cheek  for  a  kiss. 

"I'll  go  over  there  at  five." 

He  lingered,  evidently  with  something  else  on  his 
mind. 

"You'll  go  as  my  business  manager,  you  under- 
stand/' he  at  last  hinted. 

"How  else  should  I  go?"  she  asked,  cooling. 
His  roundabouts  somewhat  wearied  her. 

"Well"— he  stood  fumbling  with  his  hat— "as 
long  as  our  engagement  has  never  been  publicly 
announced " 

"There's  no  use  of  my  announcing  it  to  the  Bally- 
moores,  you  mean?" 

"That  was  my  idea.  This  is  strictly  a  matter  of 
business." 

"And  Bolshevism,"  supplied  Emily,  before  she 
sped  to  her  rooms  to  array  herself  for  the  en- 
counter. 

Emily  found  Mrs.  Ballymoore  in  much  the  same 
distracted  frame  of  mind  in  which  she  had  shown 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  285 

herself  a  year  ago  upon  Emily's  first  appeal  to  her 
liberal  spirit,  and  for  the  same  cause.  Workmen 
with  the  tools  of  their  trade  were  just  finishing  a 
lusty  day  devoted  to  covering  Mrs.  Ballymoore' s 
marble  coping  with  one  of  those  ugly  gray  boxes 
with  which  the  absentee  rich  beautify  their  city 
during  the  summer  months.  At  the  top  of  the 
Florentine  staircase  Mrs.  Ballymoore  was  harshly 
outfacing  a  foreman  of  carpenters  with  a  catalogue 
of  his  misdeeds. 

"You  have  been  treating  my  house  like  a  tene- 
ment!" she  orated  on,  ignoring  her  caller  in  the 
hall  below.  "The  noise  of  your  laborers  drinking 
beer  in  the  servants'  hall  at  noon  was  most  objec- 
tionable. And  when  I  requested  one  of  your  per- 
sons not  to  pass  through  my  house  with  his  hat  on 
his  head,  he  answered  me  in  a  most  loutish  fashion 
— most  loutish — and  intimated  that  he  was  not  tak- 
ing orders  from  me." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  ma'am,"  the  placid 
voice  of  the  foreman  protested.  "Y'see,  Dinny  is 
nothin'  but  a  carpenter,  used  to  outside  work  and 
not  much  on  parlor  etty-kett." 

"What  are  the  working  classes  coming  to?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Ballymoore.  "Not  satisfied  with  their 
outrageously  high  wages  they  are  becoming  spoiled 
and  impertinent.  Tell  the  contractor  who  sent  you 
here  that  I  do  not  intend  to  endure  such  behavior 
a  second  time.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  I'll  settle  it  with  the 
boys." 


286  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"And  now  be  off  with  you.  And  I  suggest  that 
hereafter  you  employ  men  accustomed  to  working 
in  gentlemen's  houses." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ballymoore." 

And  the  foreman  of  carpenters  was  off  with  him. 

When  the  great  disciple  of  liberation  came  down 
to  her  caller  she  was  still  fuming  from  her  encoun- 
ter with  the  impertinent,  or  lower,  classes. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  annoyed  you  with  such  a 
scene,"  she  said,  "but  conditions  have  become  per- 
fectly chaotic.  Did  you  hear  the  way  the  man 
stood  there  and  attempted  to  argue  with  me?  Isn't 
there  any  law  to  curb  such  behavior?" 

"It  seems  not,"  was  Emily's  neutral  reply.  She 
longed  to  suggest  that  the  foreman  be  given  a  long 
term  of  imprisonment,  but  considered  that  the  re- 
mark would  savor  of  a  dangerous  sarcasm. 

They  sat  in  slip-covered  chairs  under  a  great 
chandelier,  which,  inside  its  summer  bag,  looked 
like  a  collapsed  balloon  hung  upside  down  to  the 
ceiling.  Mrs.  Ballymoore  puckered  her  haggard, 
handsome  face,  and  holding  her  hands  began  un- 
propitiously : 

"About  the  Red  Tea  Room.  Have  you  planned 
to  close  it  for  the  summer?" 

"There's  always  a  good  out-of-town  trade  during 
the  summer,"  suggested  Emily,  foreseeing  trouble. 

"Nobody  who  is  anybody,"  objected  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore severely,  "ever  comes  back  to  town  before 
November." 

"We  could  make  our  revolution  very  popular  if 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  287 

we  open  the  tea  room  to  the  general  public,"  said 
Emily. 

"Who  wants  to  make  it  popular?"  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore  glared. 

"Well,  then,  we  have  the  place,  rent  paid,  the 
year  round.  Why  not  turn  it  over  for  a  dancing 
and  meeting  place  for  the  proletariat?" 

"You  mean  those  dirty  people  from  the  slums — 
heaven  knows  where  ?  My  dear  child,  do  you  know 
what  you're  saying?  The  place  would  have  to  be 
fumigated — fumigated !" 

"Of  course,  when  you  go  in  for  Bolshevism " 

"I  don't  see  what  Bolshevism  has  to  do  with  ad- 
mitting every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  off  the  street 
into  your  private  life.  Fifth  Avenue  is  ruined  now 
by  the  mobs  of  foreigners  blocking  the  streets  at 


noon." 


"Isn't  it  horrid!"  agreed  Emily  appeasingly. 

She  had  not  come  there  to  preach  a  crusade  in 
behalf  of  the  laboring  masses.  She  was  about  to 
suggest  that  a  Red  Tea  Room  would  be  a  pretty 
decoration  for  the  Tawgamuk  summer  colony, 
when  Mrs.  Ballymoore  discouraged  her  in  her  most 
managing  tone. 

"Will  you  see  that  the  place  is  closed  at  once? 
I  shan't  be  here  to  look  after  it  and  I  could  not  be 
responsible  for  what  might  happen  during  my  ab- 
sence." 

Which  was  good,  even  for  Mrs.  Ballymoore. 

Emily  saw  her  liberal  commission  gone  a-glim- 
mering  for  an  indefinite  number  of  months,  possi- 


288  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

bly  forever.  However,  she  was  there  for  another 
purpose.  Aunt  Carmen  had  accustomed  her  to  the 
whims  of  arrogant  women  and  now  seemed  as  good 
a  time  as  another. 

"I've  been  reading  about  the  death  of  Justinian 
Kroll,"  suggested  Emily,  tacking  skillfully  in  the 
puffy  wind. 

"It  was  a  great  shock  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore,  pursing  her  lips  sanctimoniously. 

"His  place  will  be  hard  to  fill,"  agreed  Emily  in 
haste. 

"It  can  never  be  filled,"  was  Mrs.  Ballymoore's 
discouraging  answer.  "Justinian  was  unique  in  his 
time.  He  had  the  gift  of  penetrative  analysis." 

By  the  way  she  said  it  it  was  evident  that  some- 
body had  given  her  this  last  rich  phrase. 

"Penetrative  analysis,"  echoed  Emily.  "That 
means  that  he  could  argue  both  sides  of  a  question, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Exactly."  Mrs.  Ballymoore  sat  pat,  her  hands 
folded. 

"I  thought  the  same  thing,"  Emily  hastened  the 
assurance.  "But  when  I  read  the  bad  news  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  the  New  Progressive  must  go  on. 
If  it  should  suspend  publication  now  it  would  be 
nothing  less  than  a  national  calamity." 

"International!"  supplied  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  The 
auspices  were  improving. 

"The  members  of  his  staff,  as  I  understand  it, 
are  none  of  them  Kroll  size.  It  will  be  necessary 
for  an  outside " 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  289 

"Do  you  think  Walter  Scott  Syle  would  consider 
the  position?" 

The  question  was  put  with  a  shocking  sudden- 
ness. Emily  had  been  waiting  for  the  cat  to  jump 
and  it  had  leaped  purring  into  her  lap ! 

"I — I  don't  know."  She  sat  struggling  with  her 
breath.  "He  has  made  his  plans  so  far  ahead.  Of 
course  when  he  gave  up  the  Raw  Deal " 

"That  was  a  vile  sheet,"  announced  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore.  "But  the  New  Progressive  is  quite  another 
matter." 

"I  know  that  Walter  still  has  editorial  ambitions. 
If  you  think  the  chances  are  favorable  I  could  con- 
sult his  wishes  in  the  matter." 

"I  shall  see  Michael  Brontzburger  at  once,"  the 
dowager  promised,  and  Emily  was  about  to  arise 
and  carry  the  good  tidings,  when  a  butler  wove  his 
way  through  the  confusion  of  the  house  and  a  mo- 
ment later  Vera  Ballymoore,  disagreeably  perfect 
in  a  hard  gray  costume,  accentuating  her  hard  gray 
eyes  and -hard  white  teeth,  came  sweeping  into  the 
conference. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do !"  she  condescend- 
ed, giving  Emily  a  warmthless  hand.  Vera  never 
allowed  Emily  to  forget  that  she  was  an  employee, 
but  to-day  her  aloofness  held  a  positive  quality. 

"Vera,  darling,"  began  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  her 
tone  betraying  the  meekness  she  felt  toward  but 
one  person  in  all  the  world,  "Justinian  Kroll  is 
dead." 

"Yes,  so  I  have  heard,"  replied  Vera. 


290  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

'  'And  dear  Emily  has  made  a  splendid  sugges- 
tion. Wouldn't  Walter  be  perfect  ?" 

"As  editor  of  the  New  Progressive?" 

Vera,  who  had  been  standing  as  though  await- 
ing an  excuse  to  quit  the  boresome  company,  sud- 
denly changed  her  mind  and  sat  down. 

"There  is  nobody  else  capable."  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore's  voice  grew  humbler  before  her  daughter's 
superior  arrogance. 

"What  exactly  are  Mr.  Syle's  recommenda- 
tions?" Vera  rolled  her  glass-clear  eyes  toward 
Emily,  who,  swallowing  her  distaste,  put  in  a  word 
in  her  own  defense. 

"I  wasn't  recommending  him.  Mrs.  Ballymoore 
made  the  suggestion." 

"I  see." 

The  glassy  orbs  were  now  turned  inquiringly 
toward  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  who  began  at  once  to 
flounder. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  quite  suitable,  darling. 
Professor  Syle  has  made  himself  such  a  distin- 
guished place  in  the  world  of  letters — our  world. 
He's  been  doing  so  well " 

"Are  you  aware  that  that  awful  paper  the  Raw 
Deal  is  never  read  by  anybody  you  would  care  to 
have  in  your  house?" 

"He  has  been  out  of  the  Raw  Deal  over  a  year 
now,"  Emily  was  so  rash  as  to  cut  in. 

"Such  a  stigma  unfortunately  remains  fixed  to  a 
man's  character,"  Vera  informed  her  with  one  of 
her  most  hateful  smiles.  "I  think  it  rather — rather 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  291 

presuming  for  Professor  Syle  to  be  asking  our  in- 
fluence  " 

"He's  not  asking  your  influence."  Emily  was 
sorry  an  instant  later  that  she  had  permitted  her 
temper  to  show  even  a  little. 

"Presuming  on  our  good  nature,"  Vera  went 
right  on.  "Because  we  took  him  up  and  introduced 
him  to — our  sort  of  people — is  no  reason  why  he 
should  let  his  ambitions  run  away  with  him.  I'm 
very  sorry,  my  dear,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  of  atro- 
cious kindness,  "if  he  has  set  his  heart  on  the  editor- 
ship." 

"He  hasn't  set  his  heart  on  it,"  Emily  lied  atro- 
ciously as  she  arose.  "But  I  still  think  he  is  the 
man  for  the  place." 

"Aren't  you  allowing  your  enthusiasm  to  run 
away  with  you?" 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  woman?  Emily 
did  not  linger  over  the  question,  for  she  already 
guessed. 

"I'm  merely  saying  what  a  great  many  people 
think,"  said  she. 

"I  don't  know  what  sort  of  people  you  mean," 
replied  Vera.  "One  cannot  educate  oneself  up  to  a 
periodical  of  the  high  standing  of  the  New  Pro- 
gressive  by  joining  oneself  to  the  gutter  brawls  of 
the  rabble."' 

How  like  what  Walter  himself  had  said! 

"Oh,  well,"  smiled  Emily,  preparing  to  take  her 
departure,  "it  will  do  no  harm  to  see  Mr.  Brontz- 
burger." 


292  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"That  will  do  no  good,  I'm  afraid/'  cooed  Vera 
in  her  most  sympathetic  tone.  "I  ran  across  Evelyn 
Brontzburger  at  Sherry's.  Poor  Kroll'a  place  has 
already  been  filled." 

"By  whom?" 

Emily  had  been  about  to  shake  hands,  but  she 
withdrew  her  hand  and  stepped  back  a  pace. 

"Fortescue  Grogan,"  said  Vera  sweetly.  "It  is 
a  splendid  appointment.  He  has  been  managing 
editor,  you  know.  A  classmate  of  poor  Kroll's." 

"That's  cozy,"  chimed  Emily. 

"I  hope  you're  not  disappointed,"  hissed  the  bare 
white  teeth. 

"I?  It  is  nothing  to  me.  And  I  am  sure  that 
Walter  never  really  considered  it." 

"No?" 

Emily,  who  had  been  shaking  Vera's  lifeless 
hand,  continued  to  hold  it. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  inquired  at 
last. 

Ignoring  a  direct  reply,  Vera  smiled  spitefully 
and  said : 

"My  dear,  I  almost  forgot  to  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Emily. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  both  be  ever  so  happy." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Emily  again. 

And  she  walked  back  to  her  hotel,  thinking  bit- 
terly how  the  parlor  radical,  like  any  other  poor 
poet,  can  be  ruined  forever  at  the  whim  of  a  great 
patron. 

Almost  the  first  sight  to  bring  her  out  of  her 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 293 

reverie  was  the  figure  of  Professor  Syle  pacing  the 
Chinese  rug  of  the  hotel  parlor.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  been  following  that  beat  ever  since  Emily's 
disappearance  on  her  mission.  He  turned  as  she 
came  in  and  in  his  hand  he  was  waving  a  crackling 
bit  of  yellow  paper. 

"Well?"  was  all  he  asked. 

"Thumbs  down,"  was  Emily's  verdict. 

"The  Ballymoores  won't  do  anything?" 

"Vera — she's  heard  of  our  engagement." 

"Jezebel!" 

"What's  the  use  of  calling  names?  I  sat  there 
half  an  hour  hearing  how  the  Raw  Deal  had  served 
you  according  to  its  name.  Vera  has  gone  round 
to  Brontzburger  and  got  the  job  for  Fortescue 
Grogan." 

"Can  anything  equal  a  jealous  woman?"  asked 
Walter,  and  again  fell  to  pacing  the  rug. 

"Not  only  that,"  announced  Emily,  determined 
to  have  the  worst  over;  "Mrs.  Ballymoore  is  clos- 
ing the  Red  Tea  Room.  I  know  it's  Vera's  doings. 
We  can  expect  no  more  favors  from  that  quarter. 
We'll  have  to  think  quick  if  we  don't  want  to  find 
ourselves  flat." 

Walter  stopped  in  front  of  her  and  thrust  the 
yellow  paper  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  ten- word  tele- 
gram. 

"Can  you  come  Chicago  week's  engagement  four 
lectures  immediate  answer? 

"LOTTA  BIRMINGHAM." 


294  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Of  course  you'll  take  it,"  decided  Emily. 

"I  wasn't  going  to." 

"Be  sensible."  Her  patience  was  wearing  thin. 
"We've  got  to  grab  what  we  can  before  this  thing 
plays  out.  Why  do  you  hesitate?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  we're  going  to  be  married 
to-morrow  ?" 

"No,  dear.  But  we  can  go  right  down  to  the 
city  hall,  get  a  license,  find  a  preacher  and  have  it 
settled  before  you  go." 

"I  think  we'd  better  wait." 

His  hesitation  seemed  perfectly  natural  at  the 
moment;  it  was  only  later  that  she  considered  how 
he  had  said  it. 

"Until  you  come  back?"  she  asked.  "That  will 
only  be  putting  it  off  for  a  week." 

"Yes,  until  I  come  back.  Now,  Emily,  let's  find 
a  telegraph  office.  How  I  hate  this  parlor  clown- 
ing and  vaudeville!  Whatever  got  me  into  such  a 
mess?" 


XXII 

EMILY  RAY  had  got  used  to  the  thought  of 
marrying  Professor  Syle.  On  the  crest  of  good 
fortune  it  had  seemed  the  normal,  sensible  thing 
to  do;  but  now  that  the  wave  threatened  to  break 
and  swamp  them — or  to  duck  them  under  for  a 
long  hard  struggle — the  thought  of  joining  forces 
with  him  and  righting  back  to  success  held  a  posi- 
tive charm  for  her.  For  whatever  the  other  Ray 
women  had  become  Emily  at  least  inherited  the 
Ray  sporting  blood;  and  now  that  Vera  Bally- 
moore's  jealous  vengeance  had  threatened  her  Wal- 
ter with  professional  ruin  Emily  was  closer  to  him 
in  mind  and  spirit  than  she  had  been  before  in  their 
peculiar  partnership. 

During  the  week  of  waiting  she  had  one  brief 
letter  from  her  fiance.  Chicago  society  apparently 
had  heard  nothing  of  Walter's  break  with  the  all- 
powerful  Ballymoores,  for  they  were  treating  him 
royally.  He  had  given  one  lecture — subscribed  and 
paid  for  in  advance — and  was  planning  the  second 
and  third.  He  would  return  Thursday  and  they 
would  be  married  the  same  day.  The  tone  of  his 
writing  was  dull  and  melancholy.  He  hated  these 
pretentious,  people.  He  was  tired  of  taking  money 
under  false  pretenses.  This  was  the  burden  of  his 
song.  It  was  quite  apparent  that  the  loss  to  him 

295 


296  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

of  the  New  Progressive  and  incidentals  had  cut 
deep  and  bitterly. 

It  was  Wednesday  morning  and  Emily  was  pack- 
ing her  belongings  for  a  voyage  into  a  new  life. 
Comrade  Elsa,  who  was  folding  Emily's  wardrobe 
and  indulging  in  melancholy  predictions  concern- 
ing an  imminent  return  to  Pomander  Place  and  the 
emancipated  she  now  heartily  loathed,  gave  forth 
scraps  of  her  philosophy. 

"If  I'd  swallowed  my  fool  pride  and  married 
that  undertaker,"  she  sighed,  "I'd  probably  be  a 
grandmother  by  now.  Not  that  I  want  to  be  a 
grandmother.  You  can't  live  your  own  life  and  be 
a  grandmother  too." 

"How  much  do  you  know  about  being  a  grand- 
mother?" asked  Emily,  who  was  on  her  knees,  her 
nose  in  a  steamer  trunk  full  of  small  possessions. 

"As  much  as  you  do,  more  probably,  because  I'm 
nearer  the  age  and  have  lectured  for  years  on 
motherhood." 

Elsa  stood  shaking  out  a  skirt  as  she  hummed  a 
tuneless  tune. 

"That  undertaker,"  she  said  at  last,  "was  wild 
about  me.  He  used  to  look  at  me  just  the  way 
Walter  does  at  you,  only  more  melancholy.  His 
profession  made  him  that  way." 

"It  seems  strange  you  didn't  take  him,"  re- 
marked Emily,  her  mind  only  half  on  what  she 
said. 

"I'm  not  the  sort  that  ever  gets  married,"  she 
mourned.  "The  trouble  with  me  is  I'm  a  oncer." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 297 

"A  what?" 

"A  oncer.  The  sort  of  girl  who  doesn't  know 
how  to  keep  more  than  one  man  at  a  time  on  the 
string.  It  takes  two  beaux  at  least  to  get  a  girl 
married  right — one  to  tease  and  the  other  to  take. 
When  I  had  a  fight  with  George  there  wasn't  any- 
thing left  for  me  but  the  blue  sky — and  he  knew 
it." 

"Am  I  a  oncer  ?"  asked  Emily,  looking  plaintive- 
ly up  from  her  search. 

"Don't  make  me  laugh.  I've  seen  your  system 
all  along." 

"System?" 

"Anybody  with  half  an  eye  could  see  you  were 
in  love  with  Walter  Syle.  Who  could  help  it?  I 
yearned  for  him  myself;  but  what  am  I  to  him? 
I  suppose  you  know  how  to  play  dozens  of  'em  at 
a  time.  Anyhow  it  worked  with  Walter." 

"What  worked?" 

"Innocence!  Don't  you  suppose  I  saw  that  fat 
boy  fairly  haunting  the  sidewalk?  It  was  the  talk 
of  Pomander  Place.  The  Italian  scrub  woman 
knew  it  and  Walter  knew  it — he  got  himself  that 
room  at  number  eight  just  to  look  after  you.  Sly 
boots!  You  knew  he'd  never  do  for  you.  He 
wasn't  of  the  mental  caliber  to  suit  you,  but  you 
worked  it  very  well.  Whenever  Walter  got  a  little 
offish  you  would  open  a  letter  from  the  other  fel- 
low, and  back  would  come  Walter  a-running." 

"You've  been  listening  to  some  very  silly  gossip," 
said  Emily,  still  rummaging  in  the  steamer  trunk. 


298 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  suppose  it's  Mr.  Browning  you're  talking  about." 

"I  don't  know  his  name.  He  was  the  young  man 
in  the  mule  business." 

"I  haven't  seen  him  or  heard  from  him  for  nearly 
a  year." 

Elsa,  with  whom  relations  had  been  almost  idyllic 
up  to  now,  took  the  rebuke  in  silence  and  went  on 
folding  skirts. 

Down  in  the  trunk  Emily  found  a  great  deal  of 
trash  and  this  she  either  tore  up  or  piled  for  con- 
demnation, according  to  its  texture.  There  were 
a  great  many  letters  in  a  forthright,  stubby  hand, 
mostly  addressed  to  the  boarding  house  where  she 
had  stayed  before  Aunt  Carmen's  appearance  in 
her  life.  One  of  these  she  dared  to  open  and  to 
read  its  first  sentence. 

"I  don't  get  all  this  prejudice  against  the  mule, 
any  way  you  take  him.  He  isn't  an  Arabian  barb, 
but  he's  an  American  citizen  and  as  such  he  has  a 
fine  brain  at  the  roots  of  his  ears.  .  .  ." 

She  kept  this  letter  and  tore  the  rest  up.  She 
came  across  the  gun-metal  cigarette  case  with  an 
iron  cross  on  it;  a  battlefield  trophy  for  which  Oli- 
ver had  bartered  during  his  inglorious  stay  over 
there.  Then  there  was  a  ring,  a  heavy  thing  of 
lapis  lazuli  carved  in  intaglio  with  the  Browning 
crest ;  the  foolish  boy  had  pretended  to  leave  it  with 
her  for  safekeeping. 

In  shaking  out  an  old  notebook  a  small  un- 
mounted photograph  fell  out  and  scurried  like  a 
withered  leaf  halfway  across  the  rug;  it  was  picked 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 299 

up  by  a  draft  from  an  open  window  and  Emily 
went  after  it  to  snatch  it  from  its  hiding  place 
behind  a  radiator. 

She  picked  it  up  and  stared  it  in  the  face.  A 
plump  and  merry  soldier  boy  stood  laughing  in  the 
foreground  while  over  his  shoulder  stared  the  long 
solemn  face  of  an  army  mule.  The  mule  was 
crowned  with  field  daisies  and  the  triumphant  ex- 
pression of  the  roly-poly  soldier  indicated  that  he 
had  just  performed  the  coronation.  A  youthful 
picture  and  a  merry  one  withal.  Emily  wondered 
if  she  were  going  to  cry  and  make  a  mess  of  things. 
She  remembered  a  fresh  morning  in  early  spring 
and  an  atrocious  red  motor  car  at  a  proud  Long 
Island  gate.  Oliver  had  just  fished  the  snapshot 
out  of  his  pocket  and  presented  it  in  that  shame- 
faced way  of  his. 

Emily  turned  the  photograph  over  and  found 
the  address  rubber-stamped  on  the  reverse  side. 
"Green  &  Plevort,  Mules." 

"Mules!"  she  repeated  to  herself. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Comrade  Elsa  sharply  as 
she  came  in  with  an  armful  of  shoes. 

"Elsa,"  said  Emily  weakly,  "here  are  some 
things  belonging  to  the — the  other  man." 

"The  fat  one?" 

Emily  nodded. 

"I  was  wondering  what  to  do  with  them." 

"Burn  'em  up!"  Elsa's  old  mouth  closed  like  a 
steel  trap. 

"I— I  think  I'd  better  send  them  back." 


300  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Be  weak  if  you  want  to,"  suggested  Elsa,  and 
whisked  out  of  the  room. 

Green  &  Plevort,  Mules.  Oliver  had  been  yoked 
with  this  stubborn-sounding  team,  but  that  had 
been  nearly  a  year  ago.  She  knew  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  let  the  past  be  past;  no  use  opening  an  old 
sore  at  this  late  date.  It  would  be  foolish,  more 
than  foolish,  to  unbolt  the  tomb,  releasing  that 
plump  and  merry  ghost.  Womanlike  she  wished 
to  do  that  very  thing. 

She  merely  wanted  an  address  where  she  could 
send  those  useless  trophies;  thus  she  argued  as  she 
got  the  telephone  book  and  found  the  number  of 
Green  &  Plevort,  Mules. 

"Hello!"  It  was  a  rough  mulish  voice  that  came 
to  her  over  the  wire  as  soon  as  the  telephones  were 
in  connection. 

"I  am  looking  for  the  address  of  Mr.  Oliver 
Browning.  I  knew  he  used  to  be  with  you " 

"Just  a  minute." 

Emily's  heart  sank,  she  knew  not  why. 

"This  is  Mr.  Browning,"  came  Oliver's  voice  a 
moment  later. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  town.  I " 

She  had  intended  to  be  terse  and  businesslike. 

"Emily!"  said  Oliver,  and  nothing  more. 

A  pause. 

"Oliver,  I  found  some  things — some  things  of 
yours  in  my  trunk.  I  wanted  you  to  have  them — 
that  is,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  keep  them.  So  I 
called  you  up." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  301 

"Funny,"  said  Oliver.  "I've  only  been  back 
about  fifteen  minutes." 

"Yes.  I  just  wanted  your  address  so  that  I  could 
send  them  back." 

"That  sounds  bad.  Emily,  you  aren't  going  to 
get  married  or  anything,  are  you?" 

A  pause  during  which  she  steadied  herself 
against  the  curious  revolving  tendencies  of  the 
room. 

"Are  you  there,  Emily?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon." 

The  pause  now  came  from  the  other  end  of  the 
wire.  Two  or  three  inarticulate  sounds  indicated 
that  Oliver  was  clearing  his  throat. 

"Who's  the  lucky  man?"  he  asked  finally. 

"Professor  Syle." 

"What?     You  mean  that " 

"Oliver!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Emily!  I  really  didn't  mean  that 
There  must  be  something  fine  about  him  or  he 
wouldn't  want  to  marry  you." 

"I  like  that!" 

"Aw,  you  know  what  I  mean.  What  was  it  you 
were  going  to  send  me?" 

"Several  things.  Shall  I  mail  them  in  care  of 
Green  &  Plevort,  Mules?" 


302  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"You  shall  not.  I'm  coming  round  for  the  stuff 
myself." 

"You  mustn't.  I'm  stopping  at  the  Hotel  Joan 
of  Arc.  There's  no  need  of  your  coming  all  this 
way " 

Emily  was  floundering. 

"I'll  be  right  over." 

"Very  well.  I  shall  leave  the  package  with  my 
secretary,"  she  announced  with  a  decision  which, 
she  thought,  made  amends  for  her  previous  weak- 
ness. Before  she  hung  up  the  receiver  she  thought 
she  heard  him  clear  his  throat  again.  She  hoped 
he  wasn't  catching  cold.  Possibly  he  was  laughing. 

She  dropped  the  trophies  hastily  into  a  Manila 
envelope,  sealed  it  and  scribbled  "Mr.  Oliver 
Browning"  across  its  jaundiced  face. 

"I  won't  be  back  for  lunch,"  she  told  Elsa  as  she 
put  on  her  hat,  preparatory  to  fleeing  the  scene  of 
danger. 

"Well,  what's  this?"  asked  Elsa  sourly,  staring 
at  the  envelope  which  Emily  had  just  thrust  into 
her  hand. 

"He'll  call  for  it  and  you  can  send  it  down  to 
him,"  said  she,  all  out  of  breath.  "If  he  asks  for 
me  tell  him  I  won't  be  back." 

"Back  from  where?"  cried  Elsa,  as  she  stood  in 
the  doorway  and  watched  the  precipitate  flight  of 
the  young  woman  whom,  despite  her  lovable  quali- 
ties, she  always  regarded  as  a  hopeless  eccentric. 

Emily  took  a  cup  of  bouillon  in  her  little  office  at 
the  Red  Tea  Room,  whither  she  had  repaired  with 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  803 

the  double  purpose  of  avoiding  Oliver  Browning 
and  of  turning  her  duties  over  to  Miss  Weerd,  her 
assistant.  As  she  sipped  the  nourishment  she  took 
stock  both  of  the  Red  Tea  Room  and  of  herself. 
It  was  a  pretty  poor  way  of  making  a  living,  she 
concluded  in  the  temporary  depression  of  her  spirit 
.  .  .  not  so  bad,  when  she  considered  that  she  was 
selling  her  talents  to  a  class  of  people  who  clamor 
to  be  cheated  ...  no  worse  surely  than  charging 
three  hundred  dollars  for  the  fashionable  label  on 
a  ninety-dollar  gown  or  running  a  crystal-gazing 
parlor  for  the  purpose  of  vending  Wall  Street  in- 
formation. 

At  any  rate  she  was  well  rid  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore 
and  her  kind.  Her  partnership  with  Walter  in  the 
promotion  of  drawing-room  revolution  had  netted 
them  a  few  thousands  which  she  had  invested  con- 
servatively. This  would  help  them  a  little  to  make 
a  new  start  in  the  world.  She  had  her  plans  for 
Walter.  Somewhere  there  was  a  college  faculty 
that  would  receive  his  chastened  spirit.  But  would 
he,  after  a  taste  of  quick  money  in  a  subsidized 
Utopia,  be  willing  to  preach  sound  economics  at  an 
instructor's  salary?  She  knew  what  a  blow  Vera 
Ballymoore' s  spite  work  had  been  to  him.  He  had 
set  his  heart  on  the  New  Progressive — "More  than 
anything  else  in  all  the  world,"  as  he  had  confessed. 
Personally  Emily  was  glad  that  he  was  to  be  for- 
evermore  a  stranger  to  that  publication,  which  bore 
to  real  journalism  the  same  relation  the  Red  Tea 
Room  bore  to  an  honest  restaurant.  The  New 


304  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

Progressive,  perfumed  with  intellectual  snobbery, 
faintly  pro-German,  faintly  anti-Ally,  faintly  neu- 
tral, faintly  everything ;  the  New  Progressive  which 
never  uttered  anything  so  vigorous  as  treason  but 
had  managed  all  during  the  war  to  sneer  at  pa- 
triotism as  a  medieval  superstition  akin  to  witch 
burning ! 

She  would  manage  Walter  as  soon  as  they  were 
married,  decided  Emily  over  her  lonely  cup  of 
bouillon.  Could  she  manage  him?  She  was  sure 
of  it.  It  would  have  been  different  with  Oliver. 
Oliver  had  always  been  a  mule. 

A  knock  on  the  door  announced  an  interruption 
to  her  reverie.  It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Owley,  dressed 
in  a  suit  of  sporting  plaid,  but  managing  to  look 
the  perfect  butler  still. 

"What  part  are  you  playing  to-day?"  she  cried, 
truly  glad  to  see  her  old  friend  after  months  of 
silence. 

"Mr.  Plunkett  of  the  Plunkett  Villa  Sites.  I 
'ave  just  lunched  at  Sherry's  with  some  select 
friends  from  Esterberry.  Quoting  from  the  Latin 
poet  Longus,  miss,  I  might  say  Their  sports  were 
of  a  childish,  pastoral  character.' ' 

"Did  you  spend  all  your  time  talking  Latin 
poetry?" 

"No,  miss — real  estate." 

"Owley,  you  rogue!  You're  behaving  like  the 
owner  of  Esterberry." 

"Quite  right,  miss.    I  am." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 305 

"In  your  part  as  Mr.  Plunkett  of  the  Plunkett 
Villa  Sites?" 

"No,  miss,  as  Halfred  Owley  of  Plainview.  I 
am  now  majority  owner  of  the  town,  you  might 
say,  'aving  taken  over  Peake's  Addition  as  far  west 
as  the  school-'ouse.  We  'ave  decided  to  divide  it 
into  'und red-foot  lots  and  erect  'ouses  to  the  taste 
of  our  clients  on  the  Owley  'Ome  Plan." 

"My  word !  What  is  Aunt  Carmen  saying  to  all 
this?" 

"She'll  close  and  be  herself  while  our  poor  malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  'er  former  tooth. 

Which  are  the  very  words  of  Lord  Macbeth,  miss." 

"Former  tooth  is  good,"  agreed  Emily.  "I  sup- 
pose she's  mad  as  hops." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  miss,  I  'ave  quit  'er  service." 

"Poor  Aunt  Carmen!"  cried  Emily,  in  spite  of 
herself.  She  had  leaned  so  upon  good  Owley. 

"It  was  not  so  much  'er  choleric  disposition; 
temper,  miss,  is  becoming  to  one  of  Mrs.  Valiant's 
'igh  station.  But  it  was  the  royalist  movement  that 
did  for  me." 

"Royalist  movement?" 

"To  restore  the  King  of  Portugal.  Mrs.  Finnes- 
sey — you'll  no  doubt  remember  the  lady  with  the 
ideas — she  started  of  it." 

"I  see." 

Truly  Emily  saw  everything.  Apparently  the 
fad  for  parlor  Bolshevism  was  already  on  the 
wane. 


306 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I  should  think  you,  of  all  people  in  the  world, 
would  sympathize  with  that,"  suggested  Owley's 
confidante. 

"Royalism  is  all  very  well  in  its  place,  miss,  but 
on  Long  Island  it  seems  a  bit  sacrilegious,  if  I 
might  say  so." 

"Nothing's  sacrilegious  on  Long  Island,"  Emily 
responded,  her  mind  somewhat  wandering.  She 
was  thinking  of  how  Oliver  Browning  must  have 
looked  and  of  what  he  must  have  said  when  that 
precious  package  was  sent  down  to  him  by  the  un- 
loved Elsa. 

"So  I  have  come  to  you,  miss,  on  a  matter  of 
business." 

"As  a  man  of  property?" 

"Quite  right.  We're  building  a  neat  little  Swiss 
chalet  at  the  corner  of  the  Owley  'Ome  Sites,  and 
the  directors  were  suggesting  a  capable  manager 
to  go  in  the  hautomobile,  show  the  property  and 
explain  the  'Ome  Plan.  I  was  wondering  if  you 
could  recommend  some  young  lady  of  business  liabil- 
ity and  good  family " 

"Owley,  are  you  offering  me  a  job?" 

"I  wouldn't  presume,  miss " 

"Well,  you  may  presume!    What's  the  salary?" 

"Two  'undred  dollars  a  month  with  commis- 
sions." 

It  all  came  over  her  in  a  delicious  flash.  She 
could  honorably  establish  herself  in  the  world  by 
accepting  a  position  as  business  manager  for  her 
aunt's  butler. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  307 

"I'm  going  to  be  married,  you  know,"  she  de- 
murred, after  a  struggle  with  mirth. 

"So  I  'ave  'eard,  miss,"  acknowledged  Mr. 
Plunkett  of  the  Villa  Sites.  "And  that  might  inter- 
fere." 

"I'll  have  to  see  my— Professor  Syle.  We'll  be 
starting  in  a  small  way  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
that  might  be  just  the  thing  for  me." 

"You  might  drop  a  card  to  Mr.  Plunkett  of  the 
Plunkett  Villa  Sites,  Esterberry,"  Owley  suggested 
at  departure. 

"I  shall,  just  as  soon  as  I  decide.  And  thank 
you,  Owley,  ever  so  much." 

"Thank  you,  miss." 

And  the  substantial  landowner  backed  out  of  the 
door,  bowing  as  he  backed. 

Emily  finished  her  work  at  three,  and  after  tak- 
ing a  somewhat  cynical  farewell  of  the  Red  Tea 
Room  she  signaled  an  uptown  bus  and  found  her- 
self a  seat  aloft.  It  was  less  than  a  dozen  blocks 
to  the  side  street  where  lay  her  discreet  feminist 
hotel ;  but  she  felt  that  a  ride  under  the  bright  sun- 
shine would  calm  her  mind  for  the  thousand  details 
of  honeymoon  preparation. 

She  was,  as  her  grandmother  used  to  say,  "all 
stirred  up  with  a  wooden  spoon."  Scraps  of  the 
strange  mixture  that  had  been  her  life  seemed 
loosened  and  floating  aimlessly  through  her  mind. 
The  passionate,  pedantic,  inconclusive  patter  of  the 
comrades  of  Pomander  Place,  the  learned  quota- 
tions of  Owley,  the  Plunkett  Villa  sites,  a  fat  boy 


308 TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

in  khaki  grinning  as  he  crowned  a  mule  with  field 
daisies.  She  prided  herself  on  her  strength  of 
mind  in  refusing  to  see  Oliver  at  her  hotel.  It 
would  all  be  over  to-morrow.  She  was  glad  of  it, 
because  something  would  be  settled  in  her  unsettled 
life.  Four  days  ago  Walter  had  written  that  he 
would  be  home  on  Thursday.  To-morrow  would 
be  Thursday.  She  must  get  a  train  schedule  and 
meet  him  at  the  station. 

It  was  as  though  her  thoughts  had  summoned 
him  out  of  thin  air,  just  as  Hindu  mystics  are  sup- 
posed to  whisk  material  bodies  over  vast  distances 
merely  by  willing  it  so.  It  was  the  proud  Bally- 
moore  car  with  the  nickeled  hood  and  straw- 
colored  body  that  first  attracted  her  attention ;  there 
was  none  other  like  it  in  town.  It  was  drawing  up 
to  the  curb  as  the  bus  passed,  and  peering  down 
from  her  superior  vantage  Emily  could  look  bird- 
fashion  upon  the  opening  of  its  glassy  door. 

She  gasped  and  all  but  fell  over  the  rail.  Profes- 
sor Walter  Scott  Syle,  nicely  arrayed  for  afternoon, 
was  stepping  out;  and  after  him,  leaning  grace- 
fully upon  his  hand,  came  Miss  Vera  Ballymoore! 

Emily  could  have  screamed  his  name  or  have 
leaped  bodily  to  the  roof  of  the  Ballymoore  car. 
Instead  she  clung  to  the  rail,  craning  her  neck  round 
and  round  as  the  bus  advanced,  gazing  and  gazing 
at  the  miraculous  apparition  of  those  two  figures 
walking  intimately  across  the  pavement  and  dis- 
appearing under  the  arched  doorway  of  a  fashion- 
able art  shop. 


XXIII 

EMILY'S  walking  trance  took  her  as  far  as  the 
lobby  of  the  Hotel  Joan  of  Arc  in  whose  cooling 
depths  she  paused.  Had  the  new  era,  which  the 
disciples  of  the  Pilsen  School  so  industriously  pre- 
dicted, come  to  pass?  Was  the  world  indeed  up- 
side down?  Out  of  the  mist  of  confusion  Emily 
heard  a  low  voice  calling  her  by  name.  She 
turned  superstitiously  and  found  that  it  was  the 
ladylike  clerk  at  the  desk. 

"There's  a  gentleman  waiting  for  you  in  the  re- 
ception room,  Miss  Ray." 

"What  gentleman?"  she  asked  dazedly. 

The  clerk  brought  a  card  from  the  proper  letter 
box  and  it  seemed  perfectly  natural  for  Emily  to 
read: 

MR.  OLIVER  BROWNING 
Representing  Green  &  Plevort.    Mules. 

She  found  Mr.  Browning  pacing  the  same  strip 
of  Chinese  rug  that  Walter  Scott  Syle  had  but  now 
paced  so  feverishly.  Her  first  impression  of  the 
nervous  pacer  was  of  a  thinner  Oliver,  an  Oliver 
to  whom  thinness  was  becoming.  The  change  gave 
him  a  romantic  look,  yet  she  missed  the  adipose 
layer  of  joyousness  which  had  slipped  away. 

"Did  you  get  your  package?"  was  her  first  ques- 
309 


310  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

tion,  as  soon  as  he  had  turned  and  given  her  his 
reproachful  gaze. 

"I  didn't  come  for  that  rot/'  was  his  first  amia- 
ble address.  Then,  running  his  hand  through  his 
limp  hair:  "Look  here,  Emily,  what  have  you  got 
to  get  married  for?" 

"So  that  people  won't  have  the  right  to  come 
round  every  year  or  two  and  scold  me  about  things 
that  aren't  any  of  their  business." 

"Oh." 

Oliver  paused  and  blew  his  nose. 

"What's  the  matter,  Oliver?  Have  you  got  a 
cold?" 

"Oh,  search  me!"  he  grumbled.  "What  does 
this  Syle  want  to  marry  you  for?" 

"What  do  several  people  want  to  marry  me  for?" 

Again  he  blew  his  nose. 

"You're  so  sort  of  scrawny,  Oliver.  It  breaks 
my  heart.  What  have  you  been  eating?" 

"Crow."    It  was  like  a  voice  out  of  the  tomb. 

"Haven't  you  been  happy?"  she  asked,  and  was 
instantly  sorry  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  ap- 
proach the  sentimental  level  she  had  been  struggling 
to  avoid. 

"Emily!"  Suddenly  Oliver  dropped  his  hat  and 
his  walking  stick  and  his  envelope  of  mementoes 
and  took  one  desperate  step  toward  her.  He  had 
turned  white  as  a  sheet. 

"It's  been  a  hell  of  a  life!"  His  voice  came 
thickly  after  the  manner  of  a  shy  man  unused  to 
revealing  his  state  of  soul.  "I've  been  traveling  all 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  311 

the  way  from  Boston  to  Bolivia,  but  I  don't  think 
there's  been  a  day  I  haven't  wanted  to  pack  up  and 
come  to  you  and  grovel." 

"Oliver!"  That  was  all  she  could  say,  because 
she  was  struggling  with  her  tears. 

"You  know,  Emily,  that  I'm  not  naturally  stub- 
born or  unreasonable " 

"Tell  that  to  the  mules!"  she  found  herself  gib- 
ing in  her  usual  tone. 

"Please  don't  rub  it  in — now.  Maybe  we  saw 
things  in  a  different  way.  I  don't  know.  But  how 
could  I  stand  round  and  look  pleasant  while  you 
left  a  good,  normal,  decent  home  and  went  to  join 
those  wild  women  from  Borneo?" 

"Do  you  call  Aunt  Carmen's  home  a  good,  nor- 
mal, decent  one?" 

There  was  danger  of  their  old  dispute  blazing 
anew. 

"It  was  until — until  you  misled  your  poor  aunt; 
got  her  to  war-dancing  with  your  tribe  down  in 
Pomander  Place." 

"Oliver,"  said  she,  neglecting  his  obviously  un- 
fair charges  for  a  new  thought,  "what  was  your 
idea  in  moving  to  Pomander  Place?" 

"Well,"  he  floundered,  "it  was  just  as  convenient 
as  anywhere  to  the  mules." 

"Meaning  me?" 

"Maybe  you've  guessed  it." 

"Why  did  you  come  into  the  party  and  act  like 
a  Bolshevik  and  get  yourself  into  that  mess  out  on 
Long  Island?" 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


''Somebody  had  to  look  out  for  the  patient,"  he 
acknowledged.  "I  had  a  fool  notion  that  you'd  get 
over  it.  I  thought  that  dynamiter's  picnic  at  your 
Aunt  Carmen's  would  cure  you." 

"And  you  came  round  in  a  week  and  found  me 
worse  than  ever." 

"When  I  heard  those  Sons  of  Rest  standing  there 
barber-shopping  'Vodka,  vodka  iiber  Alles'  I  passed 
out.  I  confess  I  did." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me  these  things,"  she  said 
faintly,  giving  him  her  hand.  And  yet  she  had  not 
the  courage  to  confess  that  her  own  lack  of  faith, 
her  suspicion  that  he  had  been  a  frivoling  fortune 
hunter,  had  all  but  spoiled  him  in  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sailing  for  France  next  week,"  he  said 
thickly,  holding  to  her  hand. 

"What  for?" 

"Mules,"  he  explained  gloomily. 

"Oh,  Oliver!" 

And  she  found  herself  crying  tears,  real  tears, 
buckets  of  them. 

"I  hope  you're  going  to  be  awfully  happy,"  she 
heard  him  mumbling  in  the  insane  embarrassment 
of  the  moment. 

"I'm  going  to  be  -    Oh,  Oliver!" 

And  again  she  wept. 

"Look  here,"  he  demanded  sternly,  as  soon  as 
the  gust  had  passed,  "what's  the  idea?  What  do 
you  have  to  marry  him  for  anyhow  ?" 

"I  —  I've  promised  him  and  he  relies  on  me  so. 
It  isn't  as  if  he  were  going  along  all  right,  Oliver. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  313 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^* 

But  he's  had  a  fearful  setback  in  his  profession  and 
it  would  kill  him  if  I  left  him  in  the  lurch." 

"Huh !  Are  loveless  marriages  part  of  the  soviet 
program  ?" 

"We're  not  following  the  soviet  program,  Oliver. 
We're " 

Whatever  their  program  was  to  be  it  was  inter- 
rupted by  one  of  the  Joan  of  Arc's  discreet  page 
girls  who  entered  with  a  card  on  a  silver  tray. 

"Aunt  Carmen !"  read  Emily,  and  turning  to  the 
bearer  of  peculiar  tidings:  "Where  is  she?" 

"Waiting  in  the  lobby,  Miss  Ray." 

"Send  her  in." 

Their  meeting  was  not  different  from  that  of  the 
majority  of  relatives  who  have  quarreled  and 
thought  it  over.  They  kissed  affectionately  and 
passed  pleasant  remarks  on  one  another's  personal 
appearance.  Aunt  Carmen  extended  to  Oliver  the 
neutral  handshake  of  society.  He  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"Don't  go,  Oliver,"  Emily  besought.  The 
promptness  with  which  he  lingered  indicated  that 
he  had  no  positive  idea  of  going. 

As  soon  as  they  were  well  seated  and  had  ex- 
changed the  commonplaces  necessary  to  an  armi- 
stice Aunt  Carmen  made  her  first  valuable  an- 
nouncement. 

"I've  come  to  town  looking  for  Owley,"  she  said, 
"and  I  thought  possibly  you  might  have  heard  of 
him." 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 


"He  came  to  see  me  at  the  Tea  Room  this  after- 
noon," explained  Emily. 

"Oh,  he  goes  to  that  place,  too!"  It  was  as 
though  the  place  referred  to  were  at  least  a  ren- 
dezvous for  drug  addicts. 

"Not  regularly  —  in  fact,  he  called  to  offer  me  a 
position." 

"Offer  you  a  position?"  Aunt  Carmen  bridled. 
"With  what,  pray?" 

"The  Plunkett  Villa  Sites  at  Esterberry." 

"Of  course  you  didn't  accept  it." 

"On  the  contrary.  It  looked  like  a  splendid  place 
and  I've  decided  to  take  it." 

"Emily!"  Aunt  Carmen's  old  mouth  gathered 
to  a  seam.  "Have  you  investigated  the  Plunkett 
Villa  Sites?" 

"What's  the  matter  with  them?"  was  Emily's 
very  natural  question. 

"Only  one  thing  —  there  aren't  any  Plunkett  Villa 
Sites." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  the  old  scamp  has  been 
lying?" 

"Poor  Owley!"  sighed  Aunt  Carmen.  "You 
mustn't  judge  him  harshly.  It  has  never  seriously 
interrupted  his  work  before  and  the  doctor  says 
that  with  a  little  rest  he'll  become  quite  normal 
again." 

"Do  you  mean  poor  Owley's  insane?" 

"Only  an  obsession.  I  suppose  we  all  have  our 
delusions."  This  was  a  wonderfully  charitable  re- 
mark for  Aunt  Carmen.  "But  I  wouldn't  lose  him 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED 315 

for  worlds.  He's  been  my  right  arm.  If  he  left 
me  I  should  have  to  move  into  New  York  and  take 
an  apartment.  Possibly  I  shall  do  so  anyway; 
everything  will  be  very  uncertain  until  the  revolu- 
tion is  over." 

"Aunt  Carmen,  you're  not  revoluting  again!"  her 
niece  implored. 

"The  royalist  revolution  in  Portugal,"  her  aunt 
explained,  thus  exonerating  Owley  from  insanity 
in  one  direction  at  least.  "Mrs.  Finnessey  is  its 
secret  agent  in  this  country.  It  is  really  very  amus- 
ing. You  must  read  some  of  our  literature.  I  am 
sure  it  will  have  a  wholesome  effect  on  the  danger- 
ous radicalism  which  is  now  sweeping  the  country 
with " 

The  shadow  of  radicalism  darkened  the  door. 
It  was  dressed  handsomely  for  the  afternoon,  wore 
a  gardenia  in  its  buttonhole,  and  after  it  had  re- 
moved its  formal  hat  it  revealed  itself  as  Professor 
Walter  Scott  Syle,  voice  of  the  struggling  masses. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Shallope?"  he  asked  in 
his  most  amiable  manner,  giving  her  his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  conceded  Mrs.  Shallope,  and 
dropped  the  hand. 

"Walter,"  said  Emily,  showing  no  surprise  at  an 
appearance  which  did  not  surprise  her ;  "you've  met 
Mr.  Browning." 

"Ah,  Mr.  "  Walter  smiled  as  he  advanced 

the  welcoming  hand. 

"Browning's  my  name,"  said  Oliver  rather  sav- 
agely. 


316  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"Oh,  so  it  is."     The  eminent,  lecturer  turned  to 
Emily,  his  face  beaming.     "I  surprised  you,  you 


see." 


"Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  his  fiancee,  not  revealing 
that  the  surprise  was  now  an  hour  old.  "When  did 
you  get  in?" 

"I  came  right  over  from  the  station." 

He  made  no  explanation  as  to  his  elegant  travel- 
ing costume.  There  was  an  awkward  moment. 
Walter  and  Oliver  were  still  standing;  Syle  was 
evidently  waiting  for  his  unsuccessful  rival  to  go. 

"I  just  dropped  in  for  a  moment — everything 
at  odds  and  ends,"  Syle  hastened  to  explain  by  way 
of  breaking  the  constraint.  "I  hope  you  won't 
think  me  fearfully  rude,  Mrs.  Shallope,  but  I  must 
talk  over  a  few  plans  with  Miss  Ray.  You'll  ex- 
cuse me  a  moment,  won't  you?" 

"As  long  as  you  like,"  Mrs.  Shallope  made  the 
hearty  concession.  "Oliver,  my  dear" — it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  spoken  really  cordially  to 
the  boy — "come  over  here  and  sit  by  me." 

On  a  velvet  lounge  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  long 
room  the  engaged  couple  settled  down  to  talk  over 
Professor  Syle's  few  plans. 

"It  looks  as  though  my  program — our  program 
— might  be  subject  to  a  revision,"  he  began  at  once, 
never  looking  at  the  girl  of  his  choice.  "These  lec- 
tures you  have  planned  for  me  are  splendid  within 
their  limitations^— don't  take  me,  please,  as  speaking 
in  a  carping  or  critical  spirit " 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  317 

"Why  don't  you  become  an  art  critic,  Walter?" 
she  asked.  He  jumped. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  last  I  saw  of  Vera  Ballymoore  she  was  in- 
terested in  picture  collections/* 

"When  was  that?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes 
wildly  on  her. 

"On  Fifth  Avenue  at  three-ten  this  afternoon." 

"My  God,  Emily " 

"Your  God,  Walter,  is  something  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  comprehend.  When  did  you  really  get 
back  to  New  York?" 

"Sunday  night,"  he  replied,  with  a  directness 
alien  to  his  nature. 

"I  see.     So  Vera  called  you." 

"Hear  me  out,  Emily!"  Professor  Syle's  calm 
had  given  way  to  tempest.  "That  Chicago  tour 
was  a  nightmare.  My  heart  wasn't  in  my  work, 
and  after  my  second  lecture  they  cancelled  the  rest 
of  my  engagement.  I  think  Mrs.  Ballymoore's 
fine  hand  was  in  it  somewhere.  Society  out  there 
began  blowing  a  perfect  blizzard.  So  I  came  home 
and  saw  Vera  Ballymoore.  Was  I  wrong?" 

"On  the  contrary,  Walter,  I  didn't  know  you  had 
so  much  common  sense." 

"The  situation  is  this,  Emily!  I'm  really  des- 
perately in  love  with  you,  but  Vera  is  quite  foolish 
about  me.  If  I  marry  you  she  will  ruin  me  finan- 
cially and  professionally." 

"Why  incur  her  wrath?"  asked  Emily,  with  a 
gentle  smile. 


318  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

"I'm  glad  you  can  look  at  it  in  a  sensible  way. 
It  all  seems  to  hinge  on  the  New  Progressive. 
Fortescue  Grogan,  it  seems,  is  only  a  tentative  ap- 
pointment. Mrs.  Ballymoore  has  the  situation  be- 
tween her  two  hands.  It  only  depends  on  what  I 
say -" 

"Have  you  said  it?"  Emily  looked  at  him 
through  narrowed  eyes. 

"To  be  frank,  Emily,  I  have.  Vera  almost  died 
of  joy.  But  of  course " 

"You  can't  marry  both  of  us,  can  you?  Or  has 
the  soviet  made  polygamy  good  form  ?" 

"You  see  I'm  in  a  hard  position,  Emily.  I've 
got  to  choose  between  love  and  my  career." 

"If  you  don't  choose  your  career,  Walter,  you're 
a  bigger  fool  than  I  think  you  are." 

"I  can  never,  never  be  happy  without  you!"  he 
protested  passionately,  but  not  so  passionately  as 
he  once  had  done. 

"Naturally!"  Emily  smiled.  "But  please  con- 
sider yourself  released." 

He  rose.  Emily  was^hurt  a  little  by  the  joy  light 
that  suffused  his  countenance. 

"You  won't  hate  me,  will  you?"  he  asked,  blush- 
ing. 

"Quite  to  the  contrary,"  answered  the  jilted  one 
out  of  the  fullness  of  her  heart.  "I  never  came  so 
near  loving  you  as  I  do  at  this  moment." 

When  they  returned  to  the  presence  of  Aunt  Car- 
men they  found  that  sprightly  lady  lecturing  Oliver 
on  his  duties  toward  the  world. 


TRIMMED  WITH  RED  319 

"If  you'd  taken  her  in  hand  and  not  permitted 
her  to  associate  with  that  rag-bag  set  of  vulgarians 
you  might  have  saved  me  all  this  worry  and  trou- 
ble. I'm  glad  you've  come  round  to  reason.  I  al- 
ways held  you  responsible  for  her  running  away 
with  that  pack  of  radicals." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Carmen!" 

Emily  fairly  threw  herself  into  the  dowager's 
skinny  arms  and  ere  the  haughty  person  could  pro- 
test her  niece  was  raving: 

"Please  don't  go  back  to  Long  Island  to-night. 
Please  don't  go  round  searching  for  Owley.  I'm 
giving  a  dinner  and  you've  got  to  cut  out  every- 
thing and  be  there." 

"Dinner,  Emmy?  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know 
before?" 

"I  just  found  it  out,"  smiled  Emily,  again  fight- 
ing with  her  tears. 

"Well,  what's  the  occasion?" 

"I'm  announcing  my  engagement." 

"My  child!"  Mrs.  Shallope's  wild  black  eyes 
traveled  curiously  between  the  two  rivals.  "To 
whom,  please?" 

"To  Oliver,"  announced  Emily,  and  on  the  im- 
pulse she  gave  him  such  a  kiss  as  Professor  Syle 
did  not  know  was  to  be  given. 

"You'll  pardon  my  rushing  away  like  this,"  said 
the  distinguished  one,  shaking  hands  all  round. 

"He's  got  to  run,"  explained  his  ex-manager. 
"He's  dining  with  Mrs.  Ballymoore." 


320  TRIMMED  WITH  RED 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  week  that  Emily 
went  to  Rosamonde  Valiant's  apartment  in  order  to 
bear  the  good  tidings  in  person.  The  merry  casti- 
net  tempo  of  a  cocktail  shaker  caught  her  ear  al- 
most before  she  had  been  admitted  into  the  Flemish 
hall. 

"Well,  well,  little  Emmy!"  roared  Merlin  Val- 
iant, striding  forth  with  an  open  hand.  "Con- 
gratulations— a  fine  lad.  And  you're  just  in  time 
to  join  me  in  his  health." 

"He's  had  two  already,"  announced  his  pam- 
pered wife. 

"Can't  you  hear  me  shaking  up  another?"  he 
asked  with  gruff  enthusiasm.  "No  place  in  the 
world  like  an  apartment " 

"Let's  see  your  ring,"  whispered  Rosamonde 
when  Merlin  had  withdrawn  to  fortify  his  shaker. 

Emily  held  her  third  finger  against  the  waning 
light,  revealing  a  fairish-sized  stone  of  conserva- 
tive cut  and  setting. 

"See  mine!"  crowed  Rosamonde  triumphantly. 

It  was  a  splendid  boreal  display  of  eleven  carats, 
cut  flat  and  square  like  an  enchanted  sheet  of  win- 
dow glass  over  whose  icy  surface  an  electric  witch 
light  glanced  and  sparkled. 

Which  jewel  was  to  bring  the  greater  happiness 
is  a  question  to  be  decided  in  the  court  of  that  child- 
god  whose  name  will  always  remind  us  of  two 
world  impulses,  love  and  cupidity. 

THE  END 


